No Words
by nicknack22
Summary: Gregory Lestrade in the aftermath of the Reichenbach Fall is a broken man.
1. Disbelief

Gregory Lestrade was sitting on a sofa, staring at the mug of tea resting in his hand. He had made it over an hour ago and it had long since gone cold, but he had never taken a sip, not one. He had spent the better part of his time staring at the murky brown liquid without even realizing that it was there. Now he set the cup down on the table.

It was one of his old mugs blue, chipped, battered, and perfectly fitted to his hand after years of persistent use, meant to be comforting. It was not the expensive bone china cups and saucers that Mycroft preferred. No, this mug was made to soothe Greg with its familiarity and endurance. He always was afraid of breaking the cups Mycroft bought, but today, _today_ Greg did not want to be allowed near anything breakable. He shuddered slightly and hunched his shoulders; he did not want to think about, let alone, see anything break.

He took in a shuddering breath and ran his hands over his face. He was scruffy, unkempt, needed a shave and a shower and a change of clothes. He also needed to sleep, badly. He desperately wanted to rid himself of the burning sensation that constantly stung the back of his eyes. _Will it __ever__ get easier? __Ever__? _From where he was sitting right now, he sincerely doubted it. He clenched his jaw with enough force to damn near break a tooth, and barely succeeded in stifling a sob. It had been a week. _A bloody week since_…

Greg had to face what had happened. He understood that. He _knew_ in his bones that he had to deal with the reality of the situation. But, somehow, he couldn't. He was the _strong_ one, the _responsible_ one, the one who was _meant_ to sort it out. Mycroft could be imperious and commanding and direct the whole bloody nation. And Sherlock-he could be brilliant, but he is-_was_—always getting into trouble…Whenever the two were in a room together, _Greg_ was the one to mediate, keep the peace, and interject with some common sense. Hell, Greg was the one to make sure they occasionally found themselves in the same room. He made sure that Sherlock was eating properly and had cases to keep his mind occupied. He reminded Mycroft that the nation did not only function on a macro level, it also existed right here in their home in their _family_. Greg did all of these things. He _always_ did these things. He was the lone voice of sanity calling out in the wilderness of Holmes. Now he was faced with an _impossible _situation. He was lost and broken, but he had to keep going, he needed to conjure that rational person into being right now but…he couldn't.

When he had gotten the call, his first reaction was complete disbelief. Sherlock couldn't be _dead_. _That's bloody __ridiculous_. It just _wasn't _possible. Greg had had some choice words to say about it, too. None of them would have been permitted in a room with children. The truth was that, despite the amount of invective and denial, he had felt the bottom drop out of his stomach; he was woozy, felt light headed. The DI had stormed past the officers and drove to the hospital in a complete haze. It was, frankly, a miracle that he didn't die on the way there. Not that Gregory Lestrade believed in miracles anymore.

Going to the hospital to see Sherlock was not out of the ordinary for Greg. In fact, it was a habitual occurrence every few months. Granted, it used to happen with far more frequency and there had been some genuinely frightening moments interspersed amongst the more benign chemical explosions, poison ingestions, and roof-top bumbles. Greg was old hat with it all; he was the customary first responder. He knew the routine well, by heart even. He would turn up, worry, and rescue the medical team from Sherlock, who was the worst patient imaginable. He would keep Mycroft calm and make sure that neither brother instigated too much, fussing over the kid while trying to be a bit covert about it. They all knew their parts in the ritual…a routine that did _not_ typically begin with a reported death. _There's been a mistake. A bloody stupid mistake_, _that's all_, he reassured himself, but he couldn't quite stop the persistent tremor in his hands as they clutched the steering wheel in a death grip. _Sherlock got himself knocked around a bit, nothing more. He'll be a bloody bastard about recouping. John will have his hands full, that's for sure. Don't envy that poor sod. Mycroft will have sorted out this Moriarty business before they even get Sherlock's x-rays the way the little idiot grouses. I'm going to give him __hell__ for putting me through this. _Greg continued this litany as he broke speed limits, ran red lights, and nearly hit a pedestrian. _He's okay. He's okay. He's going to be __okay__. He's bloody __Sherlock__; of __course__ he'll be okay._

He dashed into the hospital wildly, trying to find Mycroft, who had surely beaten him here. Greg sprinted past the nurses' station with complete indifference to their words. His dark eyes were zipping wildly around over the father sitting with a colicky child, the drunken teen with a gunshot wound, the pregnant woman who was clearly in labor, searching for a familiar face. John should be here. _Where the bloody hell else would he be? You can't separate the two of them!_ Mycroft should be here too. _Where the __fuck__ are they? They're worrying me. They are taking years off of my life. _This was unnerving. The uneasy feeling in the pit of Greg's stomach increased in intensity by several levels and the tremors had traveled from his hands to his torso.

That's when Mycroft came in with a face that was hard as ice, and just as cold. His eyes were completely vacant and his posture was rigid, as if his frame were being propped up by poles and nothing else. His characteristic swagger was gone and there was an air of defeat radiating from him that Greg had never seen before. When their eyes met across the room, Greg felt a jolt of confirmation shoot through his limbs, like a thunderbolt burning and then numbing him. He swore that his hair was standing on end with it. He opened his mouth and gripped the railing that some hospital bureaucrat had had the foresight to install in this hallway, probably for moments just like this one. _It's not a __moment__, Greg, you stupid __blighter__ everything is all bloody right. _Yet, even as he told himself this, he knew that it wasn't. It couldn't be. Not with John missing and Mycroft looking like that, as if he dreaded coming even a step nearer to Greg, as if he were made of twigs and likely to snap. Mycroft had _never_ in all the time they'd known each other, in all the time they'd been together, _ever_, looked at Greg the way that he did now. It was frightening. Greg was scared. And he decided conclusively that he did not want Mycroft to say _anything_. He did not _want_ any of this to be true.

He took a deep breath and he knew, from the way that Mycroft stared at him, that his own eyes were zipping about in fearful anticipation, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the handle of his partner's umbrella, anything but his face. He was desperately trying to steady himself, but he couldn't quite manage it.

"My," he cleared his throat firmly, "My they, ah, um, called me and said that Sherlock was here. Is he, ah, all right? Is he injured? He was about due for it, eh? What's it been seven mon-?"

Mycroft came closer, and Greg noticed that he was leaning on his umbrella like a cane. It made him seem suddenly old, weighed down by a long life. _But he's not_, Greg thought, _We're__ not. God damn it. Why does he look like that?_

When he spoke, Mycroft's voice was as composed as ever, though Greg knew that it was forced. It sounded like it was an effort to maintain control. _Why is it?_

"That _isn't_ what they told you, Gregory," he said, thinning his lips and closing his eyes, before meeting Greg's full on, "Sherlock is _not_ injured."

Greg sighed with relief, "Then what the _hell_ are we doing here? Where is he?"

"Gregory, he isn't _here_," Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's arm. The DI was shaking like a leaf. "What they _told_ you was true," Mycroft's otherwise smooth voice caught and unexpectedly broke, "Sherlock is not _here_, Gregory, he is in the _mortuary_."

The words hit Greg like a blow to the chest. His mind refused to believe them, wanted desperately to reject them, but he knew that they were true. The DI's legs gave way beneath him, and Mycroft dropped his umbrella, catching Gregory as he collapsed to the floor.

"No," Greg said, "_No_, that, that, that can't be. Mycroft he _can't _be. Sherlock _isn't_—" he gripped Mycroft's arm and buried his face in his waistcoat.

"I am _sorry_, Gregory," Mycroft said and he rested his hand comfortingly in Greg's thick silver hair, "I am so _very_ sorry."

Shock melded with sadness tinged with denial, quickly followed by an aching regret. The last words he had spoken to Sherlock, the last moments he had been with him, he had had him _arrested_. He had betrayed him, he had—Greg let out a strangled sob.

It was a mark of the extremity of loss and grief that these two men—one of whom hated being emotionally demonstrative and the other who was quite private about his relationship with the Holmes'—were sitting on the floor in the hallway of St. Bartholomew's Hospital paralyzed by grief. Greg couldn't even begin to deal with or analyze the way that he felt in this moment while tears fell unheeded from his eyes.

"I want to see him."

"Gregory are you _sure_ that that's best?"

"Mycroft," he said pulling back and wiping his face, staring straight into Mycroft's eyes, "I _need_ to see him."

Mycroft seemed to evaluate the relative merits of this in relation to the further emotional and psychological damage that it would accrue. Finally, after some particularly soulful contemplation, he nodded, "Of course, Gregory. You should, however, be aware that he is…he is in rather _bad_ shape."

"I've seen bodies before, Mycroft," he tried to be gruff, but Mycroft saw straight through it. _Well he would, wouldn't he? _If there had ever been a period in which Greg been able to hide his thoughts or feelings from his partner; it had ended so long ago that he couldn't even remember it.

Mycroft considered him for a long moment and then responded delicately, "Never Sherlock's, Gregory."

The DI clenched his jaw, determined, "Still."

"Very well."

Mycroft helped Greg to stand, and together they walked, arm in arm, to the mortuary, supporting one another, though Greg leaned into Mycroft rather heavily. It felt like his knees were made of rubber, his stomach of lead; he had lost his head somewhere completely. Grief felt like an ache throughout his entire body. It consumed him. It was easier to worry after the other survivors than to think about their current destination and what waited for him there. He was concerned for Mycroft. He was downright frightened for—

"_John_," Greg was suddenly alert and panicked. He could feel his pulse speed up, couldn't catch his breath. He might have a heart attack (_at least I'm in the right place for it_), "Where's John? Sherlock would want us to look after John. He must be—"

Mycroft stopped walking and turned to face Greg holding his shoulder one hand and using the other to tilt the DI's chin until he was looking straight at Mycroft, "Gregory, _look_ at me. Yes? Okay, now _breathe_, Gregory, you need to _breathe_. There you go. In and out. Yes, _exactly_. Slowly." Greg inhaled and exhaled as he was told, focusing on the familiar blue orbs before him, "There we are. _John_ is in the _mortuary_. He is alive, though, I daresay that he is _not_ well."

Greg nodded tightly and he rested his forehead on Mycroft's chest for a moment, gasping. He had to pull himself together before he saw John. Sherlock wouldn't want him to present a stroppy mess. _Don't be dull, Lestrade_, he would have said, _Sentimentality gets you nowhere. Just __look__ at yourself. _Sherlock's voice in his head was so strong and clear that Greg almost looked around to find the boy. _His_ boy. He squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could and tried not to cry. _Christ, I'll never hear him again_. In that moment, the DI would have traded anything in the world to have Sherlock standing there in the hallway calling him an idiot for caring. _You call this an advantage?_ He would ask disdainfully. Greg would not have been able to mount any sort of defense.

He pulled back and looked at Mycroft, clutching at his suit jacket. Mycroft kissed his forehead gently, and placed his hands on either side of Greg's face, evaluating him closely before nodding, taking Greg by the hand, and leading him onward. It was honestly, without a doubt, the longest walk that Gregory Lestrade had ever taken in his life because he knew that, at the end of it, he would see something that he had never wanted to see, not even in his grisliest nightmares. Greg had always been afraid of this, always, but he had pushed it aside, buried it. He didn't want to ever even entertain the _possibility_. Sherlock was _smart_, he was bloody _brilliant_, and he was vibrant, alive, charged, _stubborn_ all the _ruddy_ time. There was no way that he could—that he could _ever_—_die_. It just wasn't on. It was too normal, too blasé, to _ordinary_. People _died_, Sherlock would go on living forever, just to prove a point. It just wasn't _possible_ for him to be _gone_. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth," Sherlock had once said.

They had reached the mortuary, Mycroft held open the door, squeezed Greg's hand, and nodded that he should continue. Greg squared his shoulders as best he could and stepped through the door, knowing that, as he did so, he was crossing a giant divide in the universe between _before_ and _after_, between a world _with _Sherlock Holmes and a world, however impossible, _without _him. It was a wonder that the earth kept on spinning, to Greg it felt like it had stopped because that was when he saw the body, lying on the table. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath to keep from fainting. He wished it would all just disappear, everything, all of it. He opened his eyes again.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

The angst is back. What did you think? I can't believe I did this to Greg. The second part will be posted tomorrow or the following day. We will see John. I would love to know what you think, please, leave a review if you get the chance. I would love you to hear your thoughts.


	2. Seeing

"Oh my god," Greg whispered and he shuffled to the table with halting steps. He both wanted to draw nearer to see, to confirm, to try to undo this dreadful mistake and, at the same time, to stay away, turn right around and leave without a backward glance, pretend that this wasn't real. But he couldn't because that was _his_ Sherlock lying there. He reached the boy's side and looked down, swallowing hard, "Sherlock, oh my god. Oh my god."

He didn't know what to do with his hands. Without conscious thought, one came to rest on Sherlock's. The skin, always so pale was so blanched, totally drained. Sherlock had always looked like he was made of marble. People thought that he would be cold to the touch, but Greg knew that wasn't the case. Sherlock was warm when Greg gripped his shoulder, or hugged him (under great protest), on that first night when the consulting detective had been sick with withdrawal symptoms, and Greg had mopped his hair off of his forehead , his skin had been downright feverish. It was just silly to think that Sherlock was made of ice, but now his skin was cold to the touch and it was stiffing with rigor mortis, and Greg realized that it would never be warm again...

He let out a strangled sob. Sherlock's dark curls were matted with blood, dark red splotches and smears of the substance streaked across his broken face, the normally distinct features barely recognizable, half of his head was caved in from where it had hit the pavement, and his normally bright, clear eyes were closed, unseeing, never to make another observation. Greg had to shut his own eyes tightly for a moment, trying to block the image that was burned into his retinas. _This is too much_. His free hand went automatically to Sherlock's forehead (what was left of it) trying to brush the curls away, to soothe and comfort, though he knew that he could never do either of these things again. There was no response, no protest, and no grudging acceptance. Nothing. Sherlock wasn't here. He was gone. Truly gone. Greg had heard it said that no parent should outlive their child. He had never felt that that applied to him. But now he understood. He really did. He couldn't even begin to—

"I'm sorry Sherlock," he shook his head and pulled his hand back, "God, I am so _so_ _sorry_."

Mycroft had come up behind Greg without him realizing it. The first intimation he had of his presence was when he felt hands on his waist and a forehead bury itself into his shoulder.

"Gregory, I am sorry."

"He's dead, Mycroft."

"I _know_, Gregory, I _know_."

Greg felt tears begin to run down his cheeks, but he hastily brushed them away when he heard the door to the mortuary open. Both he and Mycroft looked over to see John Watson being led into the room by the medical examiner.

John looked like a ghost, like a soldier who had seen too much. He was broken, empty. Something had snapped; some part of him was gone. He didn't even notice Greg or Mycroft. He just stared blindly before him until he saw Sherlock and then he sank into a chair and clenched his hands together, looking away. He was a shell of himself, pale, shadowed. He seemed smaller somehow, folded inward. Whatever it was that made him John Watson (his soul, his heart, his spirit) was gone. He just bowed his head over his hands and rocked slightly. Mycroft observed, but Greg knew what had to be done. It was always easier to deal with someone else's pain than his own. He walked over to John and rested a hand on his arm.

The ex-army doctor, who had, in his lifetime, seen more death and destruction than anyone Greg knew, had finally shattered. There was just a crippled husk where John Watson used to be. It actually _hurt_ Greg to look at him. It was like there had been too deaths. John's eyes were wide and unseeing; he appeared to have aged at least ten years in the past few hours. Greg couldn't judge, he felt like he had lived three lifetimes himself.

"John," the DI, placed his hand on the smaller man's stooped shoulder and could feel the persistent tremors that wracked his tense frame, "John? Mate?"

John's head snapped up and he starred at Greg vacantly like he'd never seen him before, couldn't recognize him.

"He fell," his tone was completely flat and his gaze began to dart about, anywhere but at the body, "He's dead. He's dead. He's _dead_," and he buried his face in his hands, releasing a keening cry.

Greg felt tears in his own eyes and he glanced over to where Mycroft was saying something to the doctor in the corner. Molly Hooper was absent. _It would be wrong to force her to do the autopsy. She always did fancy him._

"I know, John, I know," he murmured. He wasn't sure that he had any comfort to give, but he would try for John and for Mycroft, when the time came.

John looked like a man lost, devastated, but at least he seemed to know who Greg was now, "He's gone, Greg, he's—" he licked his lips and worked his mouth, trying to find words, "Greg he kille—" furious blinking, "He _jumped_, Greg. He bloody _jumped_."

He gripped Greg's arm like a vice and stared at him, as if the DI held the answer for which he so desperately searched. _Christ_, Greg thought, _Christ help me._

"Why would he-?" John paused and tried again, his voice kept breaking, but he seemed to need to say this, and, when it came out, it was nothing more than a cracked whisper, "Why would he do that? Why would he _leave_ me? He _jumped_, Greg, he _jumped_. He's _dead_." His eyes were wild but then went dull. He released Greg and held onto himself instead.

There was a stirring behind them, and the doctor made to cover the body. Greg turned around, and John jumped up so quickly that he almost crashed into the older man.

"What are you _doing_? What the _hell_ are you _doing_?" he yelled at the doctor, "What the bloody _hell_ are you doing?"

Mycroft nodded to Greg, and the DI caught John around the middle, preventing him from moving forward. "Easy," he said, though his own voice shook, "You know how this works, John."

He looked at Greg with accusatory eyes, "They're _taking_ him away. Greg, you've got to stop them. They can't—they mustn't—they _can't_ take _Sherlock_ away. They _can't_," he struggled against Greg's hold for a minute more and then collapsed, all the fight gone out of him. By then, the medical personnel had wheeled the bier out of the room. There was a gaping hole where Sherlock had lain. Greg steered John back into the chair. The blogger just stared into space, catatonic, whispering repeatedly, "He's gone." His words echoed in the still room, in Greg's head and his heart, and the DI stood next to John until the blogger lapsed into silence.

Mycroft had left with the body, but he was back now. He gently slid an arm around Greg's waist and studied John with such sadness and pity that Greg managed to be stunned despite the ache in his chest and the strange sense of numbness that was spreading throughout his body. The truth was that he had no answers to John's questions. None. Why had Sherlock jumped? Was it _his_ fault? Had _he _caused this? His tears fell silently. He knew he would be angry when he could feel something again, but whether at himself or Sherlock was anyone's guess.

"I've made the arrangements for the body, John," Mycroft squeezed Greg gently, drawing strength and comforting at the same time. _What a strange, sad picture the three of us must make_. The doctor didn't even twitch, but Mycroft was undeterred, "The funeral will be held in three days' time." John still didn't respond.

"If you need _anything_, John," he paused, trying to find the right words to convey what he needed to in this moment, "Anything _at_ _all_, you've but to ask."

John nodded slightly, perhaps just to shut Mycroft up. Greg didn't blame him, words were useless right now. Nothing was right.

"You can come home with us," Greg offered, "We've a guest room. You know you'd be—"

"No," John's tone brooked no resistance, flat but firm.

Mycroft paused and continued in a would-be placating tone undermined only slightly by strain and exhaustion, "Are you quite _sure_, John? It wouldn't _do_ to have you pottering about—"

John interrupted with an icy edged voice, raw, and pained, "I _said_, no, Mycroft. Bloody _leave_ it."

"John, he wouldn't want—" Greg's own voice broke then and he looked away to compose himself, which was just as well since Mycroft interjected.

"Very _well_, I'll have a car come to take you home," he said.

"It's not, not anymore," neither of the older men had to ask what he meant. They all just stood together, feeling the absence, the loss, of their brother, son, partner, friend.

Mycroft arranged transportation, and he and Greg made sure the John was safely inside 221B. They went up with him. Greg made tea, into which he slipped prescription sedatives, and John fell asleep on the sofa after a few forced sips. He hadn't spoken a word since Mycroft had offered to take him "home."

"Should we just leave him here?" Greg asked, "I'm worried about him."

Mycroft stared at the DI, "I, _however_, am worried about _you_. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, and I have significantly increased the security team charged with Dr. Watson's protection." He tugged Greg's hand, "He shall be _fine_. Come along."

Greg didn't remember driving to their flat; he didn't remember arriving there either. But he found himself, a short time later, in the room that was "Sherlock's" from long ago. The consulting detective didn't keep much here anymore. It was a lie low, a place to store contraband that John didn't allow in their flat (there was a large refrigerator/freezer for excess body parts), relics from earlier cases, unwanted gifts from former clients, notebooks, miscellaneous diagrams. It looked a lot like the sitting room from Baker Street, but with a bed in the midst of the clutter instead of a sofa. Greg walked over to it and collapsed there, staring about himself with wide, unseeing eyes. _This damn well_ _hurts_. Mycroft found him there after a few moments. He took off his immaculate jacket and laid it on the top of the microscope before getting into the bed with Greg and wrapping himself around the man, holding him tightly as if he would absorb his pain through proximity.

"I am so sorry," he whispered in Greg's ear as the DI cried, taking deep shuddering breaths.

"So am I."

That had been three days ago. Three painful days in which time did not flow normally, in which minutes hurt so painfully they might as well be decades of torture, in which hours flew by so quickly that Greg wasn't sure how he had become so lost in his own thoughts or where he had traveled during that time. His memory took him back to the days when Sherlock was still struggling to find himself. The first time the boy had called him Greg. The day the DI had successfully managed to have a "family" dinner in which Sherlock and Mycroft were civil to one another (most of the time). The way that Sherlock looked at John when he though no one was watching. The young detective's fevered excitement about new cases, the electrified energy that he brought to crime scenes. The haughty disdain that he held for humanity at large, the ways in which he tried to protect himself from his own heart. How young and lost and alone he had appeared the first time Greg had seen him. The DI wondered if he was lost and alone now, wherever he was. He couldn't bear the thought of that. Sherlock needed someone to look after him. How could Greg do that if he was gone?

The funeral would be held this afternoon. Mycroft had arranged everything down to the last detail. Greg had promised himself that he would be presentable and strong for Sherlock, for Mycroft, for John especially. Sherlock would want Greg to look after John. He could do it. Really he could. Sherlock would _expect_ him to, even if it was impossible, even if it killed him. Thinking about Sherlock was hard. It _ached_.

Greg gave his face one last rub. _Bloody hell, I'm must be a sight_. He stood and shuffled away. He showered and shaved and dressed in his best suit. Mycroft had made sure to have it pressed for the occasion. Greg stood staring at himself in the mirror for a moment. He looked old. He looked like he was barely a step away from death himself, but he sighed and nodded, _come on, Greg, come on_._ You can do this_._ You __need__ to do this_. Tears were back in his eyes again, he couldn't seem to stop them.

Mycroft was at the door, looking as debonaire as ever, but completely drained and deeply stressed. There were new lines around his eyes. Greg had tried to get him to talk about it, but he was proving especially resistant to any inquiries into his emotions regarding the situation. Greg knew that the brothers had a tumultuous relationship at best, but still, he ought to be able to talk about it…

"Are you ready?" Mycroft asked tentatively.

Greg turned to face him, "No," he took the offered hand and gripped it gently, "but let's go."

Mycroft squeezed back and they left the flat together a sober couple with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter II. What did you think? _

_Thank you for taking the time to read this story. If you get the chance, please, leave a review; I would love to hear your thoughts. This story was meant to be a two shot, but I am deeply considering extending the angst beyond these two chapters. I would love to hear your opinion about whether you would like this to continue. _

_Much love._


	3. Goodbye

The funeral was a dismal affair. Though, to be fair, when were they ever not? This one in particular, _Sherlock's_ in particular, was difficult and painful. Closed casket because…well, because he had jumped off of a building to his death. There was only so much that could be done to hide the physical damage. No one wanted to see his once so distinguished features broken to pieces like so many bloody, shattered pieces, ruined, forever lost. No one could bear to see Sherlock lying there, dead, unmoving, eyes closed, not saying a word. Many had often wished (with a passion) that he would just shut the hell up for a _moment_, just a bloody moment, Greg included, but having him silenced forever…that was not something that any one of them could tolerate.

It was a quiet service, plain, unadorned, not show-offy in the least. Greg imagined that Sherlock would not have wanted a funeral at all. His righteous indignation at being the central part of such a trite convention of the masses against his will would have been spiteful at the least. Greg could picture the young consulting detective's face clearly for a moment, contorted with disgust and disappointment at the ordinary people's mindless conventionality.

There was no afterlife as far as Sherlock had been concerned, no higher power. Things came to a conclusive end with death and that was it. To the consulting detective there had been no point in being so sentimental about these things, dressing them up in delusions of false hope was inane, the tool of a weak mind. Greg begged to differ. At this point, he honestly didn't know what he believed in (the idea that someone or something had _let_ this happen was just unconscionable), but even entertaining the possibility that the only thing left of Sherlock was the broken body in that box, which there were about to bury…He couldn't. He could _not_ do it. If Sherlock were really gone, totally and completely from this world, then what was left? What was the point?

_He's not_, Greg though firmly, trying to hold back the most recent onslaught of tears_ he's here in my heart, in my bloody head_. It was a poor substitute for the real thing. _Sometimes you __need__ the fiction_, _Sherlock_, he sent the message to wherever the consulting detective was, hoping that he could hear his thoughts in death as well as he had in life, _Sometimes you need it, even if it __isn't__ true, because you won't survive otherwise_. _That's what we ordinary people need to do._ He wiped his eyes. As he did so, he wondered with a troubling shock to his system, how much longer he would be able to recall Sherlock in such detail: his voice, his face, his habits, and gestures. They would all fade with time until there was only the vaguest sense of him left to Greg. What would he do then?

When Mycroft and Greg had entered the church, the DI held his partner's hand so tightly that it was a wonder he didn't shatter any of the bones or leave bruises. To his credit, Mycroft didn't even flinch from the pressure; he just gripped back, and smiled tightly. Greg did not want to be here. But then, who would? As they walked up the aisle, he paused to look about him, observe his surroundings, but really to avoid considering their current destination.

The church was large and grandiose (Mycroft had clearly had a hand in choosing the venue). It was also dark. There were tiny windows through which faint rays of sun illuminated the floating dust motes, black marble pillars, dull flagstone floors, dark wood paneled benches, and a sort of cavernous silence that soaked up the dismal echoes and perpetuated the feeling of emptiness and conclusiveness. Whatever light or sound came into the space was quickly absorbed and dulled.

The size of the place was in direct contradiction to the congregation of mourners that gathered inside of it. There were very few who had come to see the final rites of the late consulting detective, literally and metaphorically, fallen from grace. They hovered near the altar, close to one another and yet infinitely distant.

As they drew closer, Greg saw Mrs. Hudson clutching a handkerchief to her face with both hands. She was standing next to Molly Hooper whose shoulders were hunched about her ears. The young woman was attempting to say something soothing to the 221's landlady, but was failing miserable in the attempt, to judge by the increased sobbing. The poor girl was glancing around frantically, looking for a way out. Her eyes seemed to rest briefly on Mycroft with something akin to relief, as if he might rescue her. Greg thought he saw Mycroft shake his head slightly, but he wasn't sure and, in any case, he was at that moment waylaid by Henry Knight, who had come down for the service. He shook Greg's hand vigorously, muttering something about gratitude and appreciation, but the DI didn't really give a damn. There were a few people that might have been members of Sherlock's homeless network. That was it.

No one from the Yard dared show their faces here, not even the few officers that had been on relatively "good" terms with the consulting detective. It was probably for the best that none of them had come. So help him, if Greg had seen Donovan or Anderson today, he would not have been held liable for his actions. They wouldn't have been mourning; they would have, most likely been gleeful. Just thinking about it made Greg's blood boil. He tried to tamp the lid closed on those particular feelings. Anger was good, and it was easy, but the danger lay in the direction that it could take Greg. His thoughts tended to dwell on the fact that _he_ was _responsible_ and how could he have _allowed_-? _No, Greg, not __today_. He was angry with Moriarty for creating this situation and playing with their lives, with Donovan and Anderson for the part they had played in forcing Sherlock to such extremes. Most of all, though, he hated _himself_ for allowing any of this to happen. That last was slowly and painfully eating him alive inside, keeping him awake at night, making him feel sick, disgusted, dirty…

Yet, even being angry at himself was easier than dealing with the underlying fact, which Greg tried to violently suppress and ignore, that, at some level, he was _angry_ with Sherlock for dying, to _killing _himself, for _leaving_. As much as Greg wanted to ignore it, he couldn't. It kept flashing before him in a truly devastating way. It was not just that Sherlock had _died_. No, it was not only the shock of him being gone, which was quite enough of a gut wrenching blow every time Greg was forced to remember it, every time he checked his mobile for a text, every time he saw Mycroft's face, every single moment that he managed to forget, for even a second, about what had happened. No, it was that hard on the heels of that knowledge came the realization that not only had Sherlock _died_ but he had _taken his own life_. Which, was so counter to everything that Greg knew about Sherlock, so completely contradictory to his character, something that Greg would never have considered. The boy had had some self-harmful tendencies, Greg knew, but _killing _himself? What on earth could have driven him to that extreme? What would have led him to a point from which there was no return? How desperate must he have felt? Then Greg was back to blaming himself for putting Sherlock in that position. He hated himself for it. But there was another part, a darker part, that hated Sherlock for not realizing that they could have found a way out of this _together_. Sherlock had had Greg, he had had Mycroft and John; they could have fixed _this_.

Nothing made him feel this paradoxical spiral of emotion like looking at the chief mourner. John Watson was standing poker straight (Greg recognized the ex-army doctor's military stance. Firm and focused but only a hair's breadth from completely falling apart). One of John's hands rested on the lid of the highly polished black coffin, his face betrayed nothing. His expression was so fixed that Greg didn't think he was capable of moving it, lest the façade break completely. No one was approaching the blogger, who looked strange in a suit, and whose aura radiated anger, devastation, and betrayal so strongly you could almost see them in a haze surrounding his person.

Mycroft had wandered off a few moments ago into the shadowy expanses of the church, undoubtedly to complain about the floral arrangements (or perhaps to continue avoiding John as much as humanly possible). He was typically devoted to detail (well, what would you expect from a Holmes? Or the man responsible for running a nation? Let alone the two combined into one?), but this trait had been amplified to a slightly frightening degree over the past few days. Greg appreciated it on some level because he would not have been able to manage all this by himself and he understood that being able to control mundane things was Mycroft's way of staying calm and dealing with complex and troubling issues, but he was worried that he was suppressing a bit too much. _It's his brother for God's sakes_, Greg narrowed his eyes, _he's acting like he's orchestrating a bloody __play__ for all the emotion he's showing right now_. He didn't _want_ Mycroft to hurt, that would be cruel, but he did want him to demonstrate, even if only for a moment, that he was feeling an iota of what Greg was. Perhaps he was just jealous of Mycroft's stoicism? Greg turned back to the blogger now; he could deal with Mycroft later.

He approached John cautiously, standing behind him and clearing his throat slightly. John didn't say anything; he barely moved at all, just the tiniest, most infinitesimal nod of his head to let Greg know that his presence was recognized. The doctor's eyes never changed their position, they starred at the part of the casket where Sherlock's face would be (bashed, bloody, broken) hidden beneath the lid and the simple arrangement of lilies arranged atop it. The DI wished, fervently, that John was picturing Sherlock alive rather than wrecked, dwelling on happy memories rather than the dismal recent events that had stolen him away. The current direction of his own thoughts did not leave him with much hope for John's.

He rested his hand on John's shoulder. Neither of them said a word. Greg stared at the coffin too, and felt slightly faint, thinking of what lay inside it.

Greg would never be able to remember the ceremony, or any of the details of the drive to the cemetery. He did remember, however, with striking clarity, standing by the graveside as they lowered Sherlock's body into the ground. The image of that moment was burned into his memory and would stay there for the rest of his life. His body erupted in chills and his heart clenched. He felt that part of himself was being interred as well, never to be recovered.

Mycroft stood at the foot of the grave, leaning heavily on his umbrella, face inscrutable. Greg and John stood on either side of it. John's jaw was clenched so tightly that Greg thought he could hear the man's teeth grinding from where he stood, a gaping hole separating them in their grief. John had not said a single word in Greg's presence since he had seen him in the mortuary and, though the younger man's face was impassive, closed off, and shut down completely, tears were flowing freely down his face. John looked like he would gladly jump into the ground in this moment to be with Sherlock if the consulting detective would not come back to him. It was written clearly in his shaking frame, dark hooded eyes, and the desperate gleam that shone from them. It was so painful to watch that Greg had to avert his eyes. He couldn't look at John; he couldn't look at the coffin, as they lowered it into the ground; he could not bear to see if Mycroft's face had finally broken. Instead he stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his greatcoat, staring at the grass underfoot, trying to will away his own assault of tears.

The other mourners had left. It was only the three of them now. Just these three, watching the fourth of their number leave them for good. The finality of this moment, the incontrovertible end of the once great Sherlock Holmes, was like a final twist of the knife of grief, but Greg knew that he needed to bear witness. When it was over, it was _over_, there was no longer any hope that Sherlock would jump up and shout surprise, or casually, brazenly stroll in the Yard demanding a case, or randomly pop into the flat at the most awkward moment. He would never go or be anywhere ever again. The coffin at the bottom of the grave was stark in its finality. It was a not joke; it was not a ruse; it was _real_. This was the end of Sherlock, the conclusion, the sad, bitter end.

Greg glanced at Mycroft who had bent his head, at John who had fallen to his knees, and at the patch of earth that had swallow his friend, his son, and his child whole. A sob escaped him before he could help it. A light rain began to fall. Mycroft opened his umbrella and went to stand by John shielding the younger man from precipitation that he was wholly unaware of, and Greg joined him there. After a moment of just standing, the two together heaved the army-doctor up from the ground and steered him (forcibly) away from the grave. Greg did not look back. He couldn't, not if he was to help carry John forward.

_Goodbye_, he thought.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_So here is Chapter 3. What did you think? I would be very happy to hear your opinions. I am discovering that when I write angst I really write angst. I have decided to continue this story, so look for a new chapter soon. To save me from continual heartbreak (and you as well), I've written a nonsense fluffy johnlock piece to be posted soon (a palate cleansing before we have more sadness). Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please, if you get the chance, leave a review and let me know what you think._

_Much love. _


	4. Cracks

A week passed. Then two. Things were not getting easier, but they were normalizing into a new horrible version of reality. Greg's present existence consisted of being forced out of bed by Mycroft, taking a long hot shower, during which he vaguely hoped that he'd drown, before being coerced to drink tea and eat something.

He was on leave from the Yard for the time being, so it fell to him to find other occupations during the day to distract his mind. Mycroft was acting like it was his personal mission in life to plan every moment of Greg's days during that first week, making sure that every single second was accounted for, dragging Greg to gardens and museums and his favorite restaurants where it would have been rude to refuse eating. Honestly, Greg would have preferred staying in, sitting on the sofa and staring into space, not moving out of bed, forcing himself to sleep until he could wake up from this horrible dream, or just breathing in Sherlock's room where the air still held something of the consulting detective in it.

Greg knew these were not healthy options, and Mycroft knew that Greg knew it, which was why he continued to force his partner out of the flat from dawn till dusk, bringing him to sites of great beauty in his attempt to make the world seem less empty and remind him that there were things worth living for. To Greg's eyes all the paintings were grey. He was numb to the rain. The food, though surely succulent, had no flavor. He was under the impression that Mycroft was attempting to distract himself just as much as Greg from their current situation. He went along with it for Mycroft's sake, since the man was completely impervious to Greg's attempts to take care of him in any way. The British Government had thus far spurned any and all of the DI's overtures with a very Sherlockian "I'm _fine_," which was belied by the distracted and distressed countenance that he bore. Greg was just waiting for the polished exterior to crack. _God help us all when it does_.

Part of Greg's every day included visiting John. John who was hurting, John who seemed not to be getting any better. If anything, he seemed to become more diminished, embittered, and depressed by the hour. John, who had completely shut down after the funeral and could barely even say Sherlock's name, was almost beyond comfort or connection. He gazed into space and wandered 221B like a ghost vaguely running his hands over Sherlock's chair, his violin, the skull, as if they were precious relics, talismans that if collected in the right order might conjure the spirit of the dead.

Mrs. Hudson was worried. She seemed to be handling things better than either Greg or John, though, the DI supposed, she was much older and had seen more of life. She had called Greg once, to ask him to check on John. Since then, the DI had made a point of coming to sit with the blogger, bringing food and prevailing upon the man to eat it, even if just a bit.

"_Leave it_, Greg," John had shouted; a sudden outburst that had echoed in the piercing silence of the flat.

"I won't. Stop being stupid and eat this," the two entered into a staring contest, and Greg was reminded of having to force food upon another young man once upon a time. The DI was unsure to what degree John's refusal to eat stemmed from his depression and grief and to what degree it was some sort of twisted subconscious effort to remain close to Sherlock by emulating his habits. Greg didn't have a bloody clue. He wasn't a therapist, but he did have the presence of mind to look up John's old therapist's number (all right, he got the information from Mycroft in a way that would have made Sherlock completely mad had he been there to see it_. Well you aren't_, Greg told the voice in his head, _and this is for John so don't you start to take issues with my methods. You don't have the moral high ground on this one_, _mate_. Greg had fallen into a habit of having full, though very one-sided, conversations with the Sherlock that lived in his head and usually stared at Greg with an impassive and judgmental expression). He used his ill-gotten information to make the doctor an appointment, and force him to go. John needed help. _Don't we all?_ More than Greg could give. He _refused_ to watch John drift further away every day (losing Sherlock was enough), and, as time passed and John grew more despondent, Greg recognized the need to call in reinforcements. Under normal circumstances, he would have asked Mycroft for a direct intervention, but he had been assured that that would not go over well at all.

"The doctor and I are not on good _terms_," Mycroft had said tightly.

"Why not?" Greg's hackles were raised.

Mycroft had sighed and, avoiding Greg's eyes, admitted softly "Because I was a _fool_, Gregory. Let us leave it at that, _please_."

And Greg had because Mycroft had looked so completely desperate and his tone had been so broken. _This is something that I can do_, Greg thought. What he couldn't do was leave John to suffer alone, which was why, every night at supper time; he would go and sit with the man, often in silence. Greg would bring food and try to get John to eat using every tactic from cajoling ("come on, it's your favorite") and pleading ("please, John, _please_ just one bite of the casserole") to reason ("John, you're a doctor, you know that you need to eat something") and, when all else failed, guilt ("Sherlock wouldn't want you to do this to yourself, John"). This last was the most dangerous because it was such an open, gaping wound for both of them that touching it at all stung and burned with ferocity. John's reaction was unpredictable. Once he had cried, gut wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. The next night he had just gotten up and left without a word. A third time, he had overturned the plate, spilling its contents all across the floor and glaring at Lestrade like he hated him, like it was all _his_ fault. Tonight, he said in a voice so broken, so resigned, and so low that Greg had to strain to hear it, "Well it doesn't matter what Sherlock would have wanted because he's _dead_." Neither knew what to say in response to that, and John looked a bit scared of himself as he shut his eyes tightly and apologized. Greg heaved a sigh, "It isn't your fault, John. I'll come back tomorrow, yeah?" John nodded tightly. As Greg closed the door behind himself, he caught one last glimpse of John, gazing at Sherlock's vacant chair with unmitigated sorrow.

Greg was exhausted all the time lately, but never more than when he finished his sessions with John. He walked into his flat. The lights were off, the door had been locked, it was still and silent (neither quality was Greg's friend at this juncture; they gave his mind far too much freedom to wander and present before his eyes a myriad of images and thoughts that led him down a dark twisting road upon which he'd rather not travel, as it usually ended with images of Sherlock's body in the mortuary and his own role in putting it there). The DI laid his coat over the back of the sofa with a sigh and a shake of his head. He walked down the hallway, thinking vaguely of lying down, when he saw a light shining out from beneath Mycroft's office door.

He hadn't expected him home; he'd gone into the office today and it was still a bit early. Greg would have thought this was an attempt to check up on him (_not that he didn't have me tailed all bloody day anyway_), but, if that had been the case, Mycroft would have been in the sitting room, dining room, or kitchen waiting imperiously with a tea service and a pointed look on his face. Closeted in his office meant work had been particularly gruesome, or he had finally broken down. Greg hesitated for only a moment before opening the door.

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, head bowed, long fingers pressed against his eyes. He was trembling slightly, and Greg could hear him taking shuddering gasps of air. Confronted with this image, Greg did not hesitate for even a fraction of an instant before crossing the room, kneeling down, and taking Mycroft into his arms in a firm embrace.

"There, My, there," Greg shushed, and Mycroft relaxed completely against him, clutching at his shirt.

"Gregory…"

"It's all right, My," he pressed a kiss against Mycroft's temple and rested his cheek on Mycroft's auburn hair, "You can let it out. It's okay to miss him." Greg's voice broke, and, as much as he hated that Mycroft was hurting, as much as he himself was in pain, it felt good to be here together, holding onto one another, breathing, weathering the storm. It was good for Mycroft to let go…

"Gregory…" the sobs were less and his voice, which was slightly muffled from where it was pressed into Greg's shirt, sounded tired and resigned.

"I love you, My," Greg murmured, "and we—we'll find a way to get through this. I know you hurt, I know, but you don't have to brave for me. We can be brave for each other. You're not alone. We have each other, yeah?"

Mycroft pulled back and Greg eased his hold to let him. They were face to face, both a bit tear stained, and Mycroft reached a hand to cup Greg's cheek, brushing at the wetness beneath his eye with a thumb. The DI took his hand firmly in his own.

"My, do you want to-?"

"Gregory," Mycroft was the only one that ever called Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade by his given name. Over the years he had learned the various inflections of the title on Mycroft's tongue: flirtatious; come hither; what have you done?; don't be stupid; yes, please; why are you being unreasonable; do not take Sherlock's side; I love it when you baby my brother; I love it when you baby me; I want you; thank you for being mine; etc. This particular tone was one that he had only heard a few times and it meant: sit down and shut up because there is something very important we need to discuss. Greg did both of these things and grasped Mycroft's fingers tightly.

"We need to discuss something," Mycroft was very serious (even for Mycroft). There was no affectation to his voice, and Greg's mind went in a whole host of unwanted directions. He felt a strange sort of panicking sensation creeping up his throat. _Sherlock is already __dead__, what the bloody hell else can there be? World War III? Nuclear explosion? Impending epidemic that would destroy the world? What if it's worse than that? Nothing can have happened to John in the past fifteen minutes…Can it? _His hands were almost certainly cutting off Mycroft's blood flow. _What if it's to do with Mycroft? Cancer? Aneurysm? Some sort of medical oddity for which there isn't a cure._ _The universe would not be that cruel, surely not. Please no, please, I can't, I couldn't, I—_

Mycroft extracted one of his hands and placed it on Greg's shoulder, forcing it to come unclenched. He easily read Greg's thoughts, as ever.

"_Gregory_, I—" Mycroft rejoined their hands and looked at them before facing Greg again, "I am _sorry_."

Greg's brow furrowed, "I don't understand. Mycroft, you're scaring me."

Mycroft sighed, a great exhalation that sounded like defeat and forbearance and even a bit of fear. Greg felt his stomach drop several inches lower.

"Oh, _Gregory_."

"What _is_ it, Mycroft," he was insistent, "I know that it's bloody difficult for you, but just _tell_ me. You're shaving years off of my life with waiting. Okay? It can't be that bad."

"Gregory, it's to _do_ with Sherlock," a toneless statement to which Greg could only respond by staring blankly. _Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ. _

"What—what about Sherlock, Mycroft?" Greg hesitated, he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. There was only so much that a man could take. Greg would, of course, bear any burden for Mycroft without hesitation, but he wasn't sure that he could have any more news about Sherlock without completely breaking down again.

Mycroft had turned taciturn, like he dreaded saying what he had to say and it made Greg dread it exponentially more because Mycroft did _not_ hesitate, not once he had made up his mind to do something.

"_Mycroft_," the elder Holmes refocused his attention at the sound of Greg's voice, "_what about Sherlock?_"

Mycroft straightened his spine, took a deep breath, and applied the suave veneer that he hardly ever used with Greg anymore because he knew that Greg _hated_ it. _Oh bloody hell this is going to be horrible. This is bad. Whatever it is it's bad_.

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock did not commit suicide, Gregory."

Part of Greg latched immediately onto this information like a saving grace, a magical talisman that he had been searching for in vain for two weeks. The other part rejected it immediately; _that is not what I've been forced to tell myself every five minutes for weeks_.

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that my brother did _not_ kill himself."

Greg would have been worried that the strain and grief had finally driven Mycroft mad if he didn't know for a fact that he was talking to one of the single most rational human beings on earth. _Still, proceed with caution_. He squeezed his partner's hands and looked at him as the foundation of the strange fucked up world he had been living in since Sherlock's death began to crack and fissure.

"What happened?"

Silence.

"If he didn't kill himself then what happened?"

More silence.

"Mycroft, if he didn't jump then—"

"Oh, he _jumped_."

"Well then—?"

"I said that he did not _kill_ himself. I did _not_ say that he did not _jump_," Mycroft was staring at Greg, as if attempting an esoteric form of telepathy that the DI had not yet learned. There was a bizarre apologetic gleam in his eyes. Nothing remotely like madness though.

"I don't understand," Greg admitted, "Was he pushed? Did Moriarty _push_ him? No, that doesn't make sense. John said he _saw_ him jump. He bloody talked to him while he—" Greg swallowed, it was still difficult to say any of this without choking up. There was something off, something strange and frightening…

"Mycroft?" he said softly, beseechingly, _please, love, in a world that doesn't make any sense any more at all, give me something, anything, please, because I can't do this alone and I don't know what you're saying_.

With their fingers intertwined and their faces inches apart and their eyes locked, Mycroft uttered one of the single most insane and powerful phrases that Greg had ever heard come from his mouth (and Greg had heard a great many in their time together), "He is _not_ dead, Gregory."

There was a strange whooshing sound that rushed in Greg's ears and a sort of blackening at the edges of his vision, followed by silence and a surreal clarity, "I'm sorry, ah, what?"

"Sherlock, Gregory, is _not_ _dead_."

"Mycroft," he began soothingly, "yes he is. You know that he is. We saw his body, there was a funeral. I wish that he wasn't—I—"

"_Gregory_, he is _alive_," Mycroft sighed.

"This isn't funny," Greg was torn between incredulity (_Mycroft would __never__ joke about this_), anger (_this is __not__ an acceptable conversation_), and worry (_he has finally lost his mind, that's the only explanation_). Except Mycroft really would not play a joke like this, he would not do anything to intentionally upset Greg, especially during this bereavement period, and he had most definitely not lost his mind, which left only the two completely ridiculous propositions that either Greg was asleep and having a very strange and lifelike dream or that, however impossible, that Mycroft was being honest.

"That was not my intention, Gregory, my _intention_ is to tell you the _truth_."

"The _truth_ is that Sherlock is _dead_," Greg said firmly, though it cost him a great deal to say it.

"Don't be _dull_, Inspector," a deep familiar voice intoned and Greg's head wiped around so quickly that he lost his equilibrium, "I am clearly, very much alive."

His hand tightened on Mycroft's like a vice and if he hadn't already been sitting he would have fallen to the floor. _Dear God_, he thought with clarity, _Mycroft hasn't gone mad_. _I__ have_.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 4. Have we really hit this point? So here is where things become complicated (as if they weren't already). I'd love to hear what you thought of this!_

_We're reaching that point in time when I have a lot of academic writing to do. I'm going to try to keep up the posting schedule and if there shall be a delay I will let you know. New chapter should be up on Saturday!_

_Much love._


	5. Realizations

"Oh god, don't do this," Greg whisper without really knowing to whom he appealed in his extremity. It was cruel that, on top of everything else, he was now having delusions of Sherlock being alive, and Mycroft was aiding and abetting his descent into madness…

"_Breathe_, Gregory."

"Do _not_ tell me to breathe."

Greg breathed anyway. When he didn't feel like he was about to keel over at any second, he looked back and forth between the apparition and Mycroft without quite knowing what to believe.

Mycroft had his hand rather firmly gripping Greg's knee and his solicitous voice urged the DI to "consider your blood pressure, Gregory."

"Mycroft, I swear to god, this is not the time!" Greg could feel blood pounding in his ears (which probably meant that he _ought_ to be concerned about an impending heart attack), and Mycroft catching they hysterical tone in his voice, wisely chose to desist.

Greg openly stared at the Sherlock standing the in the doorway. He did not look exactly like the Sherlock that Greg had last seen alive. He was paler, thinner, and had dark circles under his eyes. He looked a hell of a lot like a past version of Sherlock conjured from Greg's memories: friendless, out of touch, still dealing with drug problems, attachment issues, and not taking proper care of himself. Greg would have gladly accepted that as a logical explanation (_I mean, I've been carrying on conversations with him in my head for bloody weeks. Maybe hallucinating him is just the next step?_), if it weren't for the level of world weariness and complete and utter devastation that seemed to be coming off of Sherlock's rigid posture in waves. He was missing _something_ essential, something invisible, but it was gone as surely as the sky was blue. He wasn't saying anything, just observing Greg and Mycroft with a haunted, closed off expression on his face.

Greg placed his hand on top of Mycroft's (it felt quite real) and said in a halting (and valiant) attempt at equanimity, "Mycroft, do you, that is," he cleared his throat purposefully and pointed emphatically at the figure in the doorway (it didn't do to be too specific at this juncture), "do you _see_ him?"

The Sherlock did not roll his eyes or make a snarky comment, which Greg personally considered a mark against his being the real thing.

Mycroft peered intently at Greg and nodded before glancing significantly at Sherlock and saying, "He is not an _apparition_, Gregory. I can _assure_ you that he is _corporeally_ present." Greg chose not analyze the emphasis that Mycroft placed on the physical rather than mental, psychological, emotional, or personally extant nature of the phantom. There was too much happening internally for Greg to process word choice and elocution. The DI closed his eyes tightly, sucked in a huge gasp of air, which he held for the count of ten and released slowly, trying to will away the sudden lightheadedness and continued pounding in his ears. _All right, Greg, if you open your eyes and he's still there, then he's real_. _All right? All right, deal_. He held them shut for a second longer, almost afraid to peek, this was a bet with himself that he didn't want to lose.

Then he opened them and blinked five times. Sherlock was still standing there. Waiting, looking vaguely uncertain. _Well then_, Greg mused. That was as far as his mental processes went presently, which didn't matter because the rest of Greg, his heart and his body knew what to do. He disengaged from Mycroft, stood up (a bit too quickly given his currently shocked state, which left him feeling woozy), once he felt sure that his knees were not going to give out, he walked across the room in four very assertive and quick strides, until he was only a foot away from the young man.

Greg considered him intensely, looked him up and down, paying particular attention to his face. Sherlock stared back at him still silent. Greg felt tears prickling in his eyes because he had _honestly_ thought that he would _never_…that he could _never_…that Sherlock was…and that he, that this, would never—

"You bloody, fucking, _idiot_," he said softly (unsure if he was referring to himself or the young man before him. _Maybe a bit of both_) and he pulled Sherlock into a hug so tight that he thought he might break something. It didn't matter. Sherlock was _alive_. He was amazingly, miraculously, wonderfully _alive_, a possibility that Greg had not dared to imagine, dream of, or hope for, not since that horrible day. The most astonishing thing was that, in this moment, not only was Sherlock alive, but, after an instant of surprised hesitation, he was hugging Greg back with force. Greg felt the boy's head on his shoulder (if it weren't for the fact that he actually held Sherlock in his arms, the DI would have considered this further proof of his being a mirage, simulacra, or ghost), and tears making a wet patch on his shoulder.

"Bloody hell, you're _alive_," Greg was dumbfounded, amazed, startled, boggled, completely flabbergasted. He glanced back at Mycroft who had come to stand nearby and smiled tightly in return, "You're bloody _alive_." He felt so overwhelmed that it was hard to think straight. It was like the part of him that had died, the part of his heart that was entirely devoted to Sherlock and had been placed in a coffin and buried with him, had come back to life with the consulting detective. The resulting euphoria was currently manifesting in rivulets of tears flowing down his cheeks, and a bright, slightly mad, grin that stretched his face and actually hurt a bit. Not that he cared, since as of an hour ago he thought he might not be capable of happiness, let alone _smiling_, not to mention _joy_. Greg squeezed Sherlock hard before pulling back and looking at him again. He would swear that there were tears in the boy's clear eyes, but he wasn't going to say anything. Not now. This was really _Sherlock_, you couldn't fake that face, those eyes, the carriage. You just _couldn't_. Greg gripped the boy by the shoulders, evaluated him closely, and then jostled him slightly.

"You _idiot_," he said firmly, emphatically, underlined with a slight shake, "Why the _ruddy hell_ did you _do _that?" He pulled him back into another bone crushing hug and spent a full minute appreciating the fact that Sherlock was alive, home, _alive_, in his arms, _alive_, actually being affectionate, not dead, or buried or gone, or irretrievable, and most of all _alive_. All of which were in competition for the most miraculous aspect of this encounter.

But then the wheels began to turn in Greg's head. Gregory Lestrade had developed excellent skills of adaptation, having lived with Mycroft and Sherlock in his life for over a decade. If something completely insane presented itself (and this happened frequently), Greg dealt with it in a wholly pragmatic way. He accepted many of the quirks, foibles, craziness, awkward situations, danger, stress, high blood pressure, headaches, frustration, and general ridiculousness with good natured aplomb and a practical "how shall we deal with this?" attitude because he loved them. They were his family. That's what you do for your family. It was also a survival mechanism. You can't live with the Holmes' without developing a certain ability, and willingness, to deal with the improbable or, as they preferred, _extraordinary_. Greg was willing and able to accept a lot on good faith. He was prepared to support, protect, help, and care. He did all of this graciously and good-naturedly, but something struck him now: "You couldn't fake this," he had mused earlier. _But someone __had_..._If Sherlock isn't dead_…the consulting detective seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts because he tensed as Greg pulled back, once again holding him by the shoulders and closely scrutinizing his face. The DI's smile had faded slightly around the edges.

"_Why the ruddy hell did you do that!_" Sherlock didn't make a sound, and Greg stared at him, eyebrows beginning to draw together in a state of confusion and burgeoning upset. He wasn't angry. Not yet. _Since when does Sherlock not answer a question when he has an answer?_

The newly resurrected glanced at Mycroft for direction (_since when the ruddy hell does he do that!_), and so did Greg.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" he was trying to keep his tone steady but it was not working.

"Gregory, _please_, remain _calm_," Mycroft signaled that he ought to stand down and his eyes looked incredibly wary. _They bloody well should…_

"Mycroft, what the _fucking hell_ is going on?" Not so calm anymore. Greg could hear his heart in his ears again. _If he says a single word about my blood pressure_…

"Gregory, it is _essential_ that—"

"Do _not_ play the rational card with me, Mycroft, not right now," Greg's tone was sharper than it had ever been, cutting, biting, something he had, in his way, picked up from prolonged contact with his partner no doubt, "Did you _know_ about this?"

There was no response. Instead Mycroft markedly refused to make eye contact and a repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists, clearly longing for his umbrella. Sherlock was watching the exchange with interest, or as much interest as a silent person who looks like they have a slight case of PTSD can mount; he still hadn't said anything and he did not respond in any way to the viselike grip that Greg maintained on his arm. The older man refused to lose physical or visual contact with Sherlock, lest he disappear into the ether.

"Mycroft, Did. You. Know. About. This?" he enunciated each word forcefully, clearly, gestured sharply to Sherlock with his free hand, and tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that insisted that Mycroft made it his business to know _everything_ especially as it related to his brother. _He would __not__ do that to you, Greg, he would __never__ do that do you. There has to be another explanation. There bloody __has__ to be. There __needs __to be…_Mycroft didn't say a word. No one did. There was silence in the room aside from Greg's heavy breathing.

"Because you _told_ me that Sherlock was _dead_," Greg paused briefly, his emotions were going haywire; he was torn between nearly crying, throwing something, or laughing hysterically, "You took me to see a _body_. A fucking corpse, which _obviously_ wasn't really him," he waited again. At this point, Greg was _praying_ for Mycroft to intervene, to prove him wrong, to tell him that he had been fooled too, believed that Sherlock had died, felt the same pain, that Sherlock had duped them both. _Then we can bloody ground him together and move on_. He wanted Mycroft to _tell_ him that he had not withheld this information that he would _never_ have done such a thing, but Mycroft was not saying anything at all.

"You _planned_ the funeral. We _buried_ him together. You watched me cry for weeks, Mycroft." Still nothing.

"Did you _know_?"

"I'm sorry, Gregory," he sounded it too, but Greg wasn't really paying much attention to the tone, he was more concerned with the fact that he felt those words, that admission, like a physical slap across the face. He had been betrayed by the one person that he loved most and he had been deceived in the worst way possible.

"You knew."

"Yes."

"What about our rule, Mycroft? Honesty? Remember that?"

"Gregory—"

"You let me _believe_ _that he was dead_. _Our _Sherlock. Dead. You let me believe that," Greg hissed.

"I _cannot_ _believe_ that you _did that_. You just let me think that—"

"Greg."

Mycroft who had been wilting under Greg's tirade, trying to mount a defense and being stymied at every turn by the incensed DI, and Greg who had been so completely hurt and just overwhelmed that he had almost forgotten that Sherlock was standing right next to him, both turned to stare at the object of their argument who had only just spoken for the first time since it began.

"You just called me Greg," gob smacked first, always a good reaction.

"Yes, it is your name, isn't it?" Sherlock considered Greg carefully, contemplatively, gauging his emotional response, and in what ways he himself was complicit in it, "Mycroft is not at fault here…for _once_."

"Of all the bloody times you decide to _defend_ him it has to be right now?" _Seriously, this is the story of my life. Alternate universe every other fucking day! The one bloody time I'd be on his side to take down his brother…_

"I am not _defending_ him," Sherlock paused and looked at Mycroft with a strange expression. It wasn't outwardly hostile at any rate, "Mycroft and I had put into place a plan in the event that things went out of hand. He did not know whether or not it was successful for several hours after the fact."

"Sherlock, you needn't-" Mycroft began, but Sherlock intervened.

"Oh, I _know_, Mycroft," he spat bitterly and that strange sense of something being missing was exacerbated for a moment, "Believe me, this is not for _your_ benefit."

"Both of you, _shut up_, right now," Greg's tone had dropped and there was a wintry chill to it. Both of the Holmes' regarded him seriously and were immediately silenced. Greg did not take the time appreciate this complacency before he pushed on, "One of you had better explain what the ruddy hell is going on _right now_."

The brothers looked at one another: Mycroft disheartened, Sherlock angry. Greg watched them like a hawk, trying to interpret the coded messages contained in their glances. Mycroft clearly felt guilty, _he bloody ought to_. Sherlock was resolved to something but displeased with Mycroft, _nothing new in that, though the reasons seem to have changed_.

"_Now_."

And, after taking a deep breath, Mycroft explained, in detail. The way that Moriarty had been released, the threat that he had posed, the strategies the he and Sherlock developed in the event of an emergency, the contingency plan they had put in place when Sherlock had been promised a "fall," measures taken to protect the "inner circle," the unfortunate need to put them into effect, technical details about distance and velocity, hallucinogens, crowds, magic tricks, slights of hand, the homeless network, Molly Hooper. He elucidated to Greg, whose head was spinning by this point by the amount of information, the way that he and Sherlock had made sure to disguise a passable corpse, damaged in a believable way, the funeral orchestrations, and the necessary façade in light of the specific threats (which were vaguely described). Sherlock was silent throughout the account, appearing bored and disdainful, but also, and this was most worrisome, slightly traumatized. Greg suddenly knew who he looked like: John. The blogger had worn the same devastated expression for weeks now.

"You should have _told_ me," Greg's tone was flat by this point.

"Gregory, I _couldn't_, not given the—"

"Yes you could have. You _chose_ not to. You made that decision for me," he stared at Mycroft, genuinely hurt, "You _should _have told me. You _knew_ how I felt, and we had a _rule_, Mycroft."

"I know, Gregory," defeatist tones in the Head of State.

Greg heaved a sigh and turned to Sherlock, "Have you told John?"

Sherlock didn't look away, but a barrier clearly dropped over his face. He was hiding in plain sight. _Oh, fuck…_

"Sherlock," Greg was disturbed by the armor; Sherlock deployed it only when he dealt with people he had known from childhood or Anderson, as a shield for protection, _not good_, "Did you tell John?"

"He _can't_," Mycroft said quietly.

Greg's eyes nearly bulged out of his head so apoplectic was he, "I'm sorry, I think I heard you wrong. What the _hell_ do you mean he can't tell John? Of course he can. He has to. Have you seen the bloke lately? Sherlock you need to go and tell him right this—"

"I can't," Sherlock's voice was strained; there was pain and bitterness that he couldn't conceal beneath affected ennui despite his best efforts.

"Sherlock knows that he cannot tell Dr. Watson that he is alive. The terms of Moriarty's threat are contingent upon the fact that—"

"Yes, I _know_, dear brother," Sherlock said and shot daggers at Mycroft. _So they've had this conversation before._

"Damn Moriarty and damn his bloody rules! He's wrecked enough havoc as it is. Sherlock, if you don't tell him, I will, he can't-" Greg began, but Sherlock quickly reversed Greg's grip on his arm so that the consulting detective was the one clutching at Greg's wrist, hard enough to leave a bruise. The indifferent veneer was gone in an instant. His face was intense, his eyes slightly wild.

"You _cannot_ tell John," he was adamant, "If you tell John he will _die_."

"All right, Sherlock," Greg said, mostly to placate the younger man. The issue, as far as he was concerned, was far from closed. Sherlock seemed like he might collapse and Greg steered him into a chair. Mycroft hovered around him as he did this, and Greg was certain that _that_ was far from over as well. He had never been quite so angry in his whole life, and Mycroft sensing this did not try to touch him or mount a strong defense. That was not his style. _No, he's going to insidiously try to break me down, well good bloody luck_.

"Mycroft," Greg said, as he sat down and placed his face in his hands, "go make some tea. I really can't deal with this right now."

"Yes, Gregory," he said softly, Greg didn't want to see the meek, apologetic look; it would either break his resolve or incense him still further.

Sherlock was staring into space and Greg was staring at him, "I'm glad you're alive."

Sherlock didn't say anything; he nodded briefly before he too put his face in his hands in a gesture very reminiscent of his detested elder brother. Greg had to wonder, as he looked at a broken Sherlock, felt the ache of betrayal that tainted this reunion, and saw Mycroft's expression as turned his back and left the room to make some tea, if any of them would really make it out of this unscathed.

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><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 5. What did you think? Please, review if you have the chance. Things are just going to get more angsty/complicated from here._


	6. Caring

In another universe Greg Lestrade's life would have been different. There were so many points at which he could have chosen another outcome. He could have refused to take the promotion at the Yard and moved to Oxford as he'd planned. He could have been a coward and stayed with his wife despite how horrible things had become between them. He could have listened to his friends in the wake of the divorce and adopted a puppy (instead of a wayward twenty year old genius). He could have stayed home that fateful day when Sherlock, and subsequently Mycroft, first walked into his life. He could have refused both of them. He could have let Sherlock wander off and spurned Mycroft's eccentric and vaguely menacing charms. He could have turned down any overtures and ignored how he felt. He could have refused to become so emotionally invested in the two of them. Any of those paths, those little choices, which weren't even necessarily conscious, and which were, to a large degree, navigated purely by his character, his gut, and the impulsive desires of his large heart, would have led him far from here. They would have created a Greg Lestrade very different from this man who sat on a sofa in his home with his newly resurrected son and too many conflicting emotions to process. The idea of a Lestrade who had never loved Mycroft, who would have never known or cared about Sherlock, was odd, wrong, and foreign.

In one of those many potential, alternate universes, Greg Lestrade would take the miracle of Sherlock's return with a wide smile and a completely forgiving hug. He would laugh off the antics as merely another example of the ways in which Holmes' were a rare breed. He would allow joy to consume him and release all the angst, sorrow, and bitterness. He would simply allow himself to be grateful and happy. He would hug Sherlock, kiss Mycroft, tell them both off (in an affable and jocular manner) for worrying him and make them swear to behave from here on out. In another world. But Greg, our Greg, was not that person. He may wish to be that man, but he wasn't, he couldn't be, not with these stakes, not with this reality, not with the situation currently staring him in the face.

The situation was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, recently deceased, except he wasn't. Now, he was perched upon the edge of the sofa in Mycroft's study, next to Greg, with his face in his hands and an attitude of deep concentration, the type of focus he typically reserved for a highly difficult and painful problem. He was not wearing his excited deducing face, or even his challenged one. No, the expression he wore suggested that what currently occupied the larger part of his exceptionally capable mind was not pleasant in the least. There was a grim set to his mouth.

Greg knew this because he had made certain decisions long ago, tiny steps along a road that had placed him, somehow, inexorably, and intimately with the people, who (for better and worse) made up his family, a tribe of which, for reasons he wasn't sure even he understood, he was somehow the caretaker. It's why in addition to just marveling at Sherlock's return, he was evaluating the consulting detective's relative appearance, trying to measure this face against the most recent one that he had in his mind's eye (_no, not that one, Greg, the live one, don't think on the other __ever__ again_). After several moments' contemplation, he decided that "strained" was probably the best word to describe Sherlock right now. _Distracted too_, he added when Sherlock didn't seem to notice or care about the volume of the DI's thoughts. He was either somewhere so deeply ensconced in his mind palace (a hidden chamber or secret passage, _because Sherlock's mind palace __would__ have those_) that he wasn't aware of Greg (_not bloody likely_), or he was in a state of shock (_shouldn't that position go to me right now?_).

"Sherlock," he offered, "you all right?"

Sherlock raised his head and looked at Greg with red rimmed, icy green eyes. He considered the DI's question seriously, and appeared to come to a conclusion that was revealing and unpleasant. He laughed for a moment, just a short burst of bitterness; like shattered glass caught in his throat.

"No," he said flatly, "I am not."

"Oh," Greg had expected a protestation (that's how a conversation like this, this being Sherlock's health or wellbeing, not his recent resurrection, usually went) not a straightforward admission, and was thus ill-advised on how to proceed.

"You want to talk about it?"

"You can't be serious," Sherlock's eyebrows quirked slightly, but they couldn't distract Greg from the new lines etched around his mouth and over the bridge of his nose, undoubtedly from the frown he was wearing now and had undoubtedly been wearing for the past two weeks.

Greg shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Things might go better if he pretended to be at ease even if he was anything but. He was an expert at pretending he knew what was going on, even if he had no idea. It made things go more smoothly. _Who am I kidding? There is no way this is going to go well_. "I am."

Sherlock turned away, got up and paced a bit, agitatedly walking over and standing by the bookshelves in the corner. Greg was tempted to go after him, but remained seated instead. _He's not going to disappear __again_; he admonished the part of himself that didn't want Sherlock out of his sights, the part that was all for tying the boy up and instituting a strict curfew, maybe locking him in his room if necessary. Greg was actually to the point where he was seriously considering completely reversing his stance on Mycroft's casual attitude towards clandestine surveillance. _Don't think about Mycroft just now_, he told his brain and focused on something else before he could open that particular can of worms.

"He threatened you, as well," Sherlock seemingly commented to the complete works of Jane Austen.

"What?"

"Moriarty, he threatened John and Mrs. Hudson, and _you_," Sherlock's tone remained neutral, but he kept his rigid back to Greg while he spoke. The DI didn't interrupt, though he very much wanted to make some pointed inquiries. Sherlock would get to it in his own time. There was a rare hesitation in his presentation of this particular evidence for Greg's assessment.

"His aim was to attack those that I _care_ for."

Greg smiled briefly despite himself. _From Sherlock, that's about as much of a declaration of love as I'm ever going to get_.

"Don't be dull, Lestrade, of _course_," Sherlock said, reading Greg's mind as per usual, as he turned around to face the DI from across the room, "That's why you weren't told,"

The DI remained seated, arms crossed, and waiting for whatever was to come next. "Who else knows?"

"Mycroft, obviously. Molly Hooper, again, clearly," Sherlock linked his hands behind his back.

"You could have said something to me," Greg was firm about this. He had to make sure this was clear. He had to somehow make up for his part, orchestrated or not, "I could have _helped_."

Sherlock gave his head the briefest of shakes and rolled his eyes, "Don't you _see_? You had to believe that I was dead. Moriarty's snipers had to _believe _it. They would have noticed if your reaction was not genuine."

"But now it's fine for me to know?" Greg queried dubiously, "What's changed?"

After the briefest pause, Sherlock replied, "Mycroft _felt_ that continuing the _charade_ was detrimental to your health…I agreed. Besides, I will need your complicity in the next stage of this operation."

Greg was about to request an immediate elaboration of both points: had Mycroft really advocated that he been included into the Holmesian Elite Top Secret Society of Master Plans and Deduction? Would he now be given a membership card? At what point was it decided that he was worthy of incorporation? From the start? As soon as he found out about Sherlock's death? When he cried over Sherlock's corpse? When he helped John after the funeral? When he was so depressed that he hardly felt like living? At what point had it been deemed _necessary_? Did it even _matter_? Had Sherlock been aware of all of this the whole time? _Has he been watching us __mourn__ him? _Greg had to consider what that must have been like. As much as Sherlock enjoyed having his ego stroked, the DI doubted very much that it would be entirely pleasant to watch the few people that you cared about falling apart; knowing that the source of their pain was in your hands but being unable to change it. It had certainly not been pleasant for Greg to experience it on his side of things. He was quite sure this might explain the overwrought look that Sherlock currently bore, at least, in part…However, even more pressing to Greg was what Sherlock meant by the (to Greg's ears, exceedingly ominous) phrase "next stage of this operation." He was opening his mouth to inquire about this directly when Mycroft entered the room and the two men turned to face him.

The elder Holmes carried a tea tray. Porcelain cups and delicate pot, the type that Greg usually avoided, but Mycroft couldn't help but use in company. Greg was under the impression that it was a part of his troubled upbringing that he couldn't shake. "My mother was a _detestable_ woman," he had told Greg once, ironically, right before the DI met the woman for the first time, "But she taught me the value of a good tea service. And that _includes_ fine china, Gregory, not that deplorable _crockery_ that you use." Greg had rolled his eyes. Now, he surveyed his partner as he elegantly poured out and marveled at the fact that he was handed, not the dainty demitasse that he despised but his favorite blue mug. Mycroft gave him a small apologetic smile and his eyes asked Greg if he would accept this as a small overture, the first of many apologies. Greg took the cup, but didn't make any promises by look or gesture; accepting the tea with civility was enough for the moment.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, taking charge, "Do come and sit down and let's be _civilized_, please. I believe that we three need to _talk_."

Sherlock made a mildly disgusted face (he did so hate following Mycroft's orders, even one so innocuous at "sit down") but came to join the tea party (and strategy session) without comment. He perched upon the sofa next to Greg. Mycroft handed him a cup and saucer and arranged himself in one of the wing chairs, facing them across the coffee table. They all sipped in silence for a moment: Mycroft calculating, sharp, yet wary; Sherlock strangely absent (he seemed to alternate very rapidly between intense focus on the present moment and a vague withdrawal from the room and the rest of humanity in general. Greg, who had known him, raised him, and worried about him for years, was even less sure of the location to which he was currently disappearing than ever before. The cold look on the younger man's face gave him pause. _If by pause you mean chills and a very bad feeling_); and Greg extremely tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop because he knew that something was coming and soon.

"So," Greg broke the silence, ready to get this over with. It should be a happy event, the fact that the three of them were all sitting in a room together, drinking tea, alive, Sherlock and Mycroft had not even swapped insults yet, but the tension was so thick between Mycroft and the other two that you could practically taste it, "You'll be staying with us then for a while, yeah?" Greg was starting to go in a practical, organizational direction mentally. If Sherlock was going to be a ponce about John, he could at least stay here until he came to his senses (or Greg completely trounced him into submission, he was mentally cataloguing the ways that he could guilt Mycroft into coming to his aid. _He owes me_ _in a very serious way_). "You room is still here and we could—Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

The younger man looked up, glanced at Greg, then Mycroft, and then back. He was doing that a lot lately and it seemed to be an indication that he was waiting for a fissure to form between them, one which he could anticipate because he had the advantage of more information at his disposal.

"Sherlock _won't_ be staying with us, Gregory," Mycroft sighed resignedly, setting his cup down, folding his hands together, steepling the fingers, and pressing them to his lips.

Greg had had enough of this childishness. _Now is not the bloody time_, "What are you on about? Of _course_ he is. Where the hell else is he going to stay?"

"I'm not staying anywhere, presently," Sherlock stated clinically, like he was commenting on the color of your eyes, the state of the weather, the answer to two plus two, recounting dull, boring, meaningless information, instead of dropping a bombshell that Greg found completely ridiculous and left him checking his hearing because, surely, he had not heard him correctly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I won't be staying. I've only remained in London this long in order to tie up some loose ends. I will be leaving in the morning."

Greg had had it. This was enough, the end, he was putting his foot down, "Sherlock Holmes you are not going _anywhere_. You just came _back_ and you are not _leaving_," he looked over at Mycroft pleading for support, but the elder Holmes just took a deep breath and let it out slowly, full of regret.

"Back me up," Greg urged through gritted teeth.

"He has to leave, Gregory," his partner said, slowly, clearly, and deliberately, "Moriarty has a vast network, and you are at risk until such time as it is brought down."

"And Sherlock's not? Going after them by _himself_? Bullocks and you know it. Have one of your minions do it. You run the bloody government for Christ's sake, My, _delegate_!"

"No," Sherlock stated coldly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation or admiration, Greg could not discern, "I _offered_ my humble services, but Sherlock is taking a _personal_ interest in this particular _case_."

That was true enough, Sherlock's jaw was set and his eyes were devoid of emotion. Greg was legitimately frightened. _We cannot let him go gallivanting off to God knows where like this. Especially not after we just got him back_. Greg made a decisive tactical move at this juncture.

"What about me then? You think I'll be okay with you just hopping about the world, getting into dangerous situations, putting yourself at risk?" Sherlock spared him a scathing look, which conveyed effectively the idea that "I do that _anyway_, as you well know." Greg frowned, but his tone was a bit pleading, "Well then, what about _John_? You're just going to leave him here?"

Sherlock sniffed perceptibly, and looked away. _Bull's eye_, Greg thought, and he pressed his advantage. "He's a right mess, and you know it. You're just going to let him go on like that? That's your plan?"

"_No_. My _plan_ is to make sure you are both _safe_, and in order to do that I will have to take down every last one of Moriarty's henchmen," he paused and there was such hostility and disgust radiating from him that Greg was quite glad he had never worked for Jim Moriarty. Sherlock stared back at Greg, and the sadness that lingered beneath his palpable desire to _destroy_ every remaining trace of Moriarty was visible in his eyes, "You will look after John. He will be fine."

Sherlock abruptly set down his tea cup, got up, and left the room before Greg could even say another word. The DI pressed his lips together into a hard line to keep from screaming.

"He will be perfectly _fine_," Mycroft said, but Greg didn't believe him and he was relatively sure that Mycroft didn't believe himself either. His face was highly concerned.

Greg rubbed his eyes tiredly, "Did you even _see_ him? He's a loose cannon right now. My, you _know_ what he's like," Greg regarded him pointedly, "you really think he's going to be fine going off into some kind of insane mission by himself while he's like _this_?"

Mycroft tilted his head and considered Greg's tired and anxious face closely, "Sometimes, there is honor in revenge. Sometimes it is a warranted course of action. Besides, Gregory, do you honestly believe that I would _allow_ him to go off by himself? He will be _closely_ monitored the entire time." The phrase "_until he shakes his tail and wanders off into dangerous territory completely alone and in a sadistic and vulnerable mental state, willing to take risks that he wouldn't in other circumstances"_ hung in the air between them.

"We just got him _back_, My," Greg was too exhausted and anxious to even care that he was meant to be angry with Mycroft. There spatial proximity was being defined by the latter sentiment. There was a clear distance between them right now, a demarcation born of disappointment and displeasure. Mycroft wanted to comfort with touch, and, though Greg desperately wanted and needed that reassurance, he was not ready for it at all. In some ways it made this all the worse, they couldn't seek solace in the way to which they were accustomed. They were divided by too much hurt. "I cannot deal with this again."

"I shall do _everything_ in my power to prevent that, Gregory," Mycroft said earnestly leaning forward in solicitation, "But I believe that we shall have to hope that this business with Moriarty concludes in short order. Sherlock is quite stubborn."

"Oh, I know…" Greg laughed shortly, humorlessly, and Mycroft appeared stricken, knowing what the DI was thinking: _This is all far from bloody over._

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 6. I can't believe that we've come this far. What did you think? Please, review if you can. They make me happy and encourage me to keep writing! Next update on Wednesday/Thursday._


	7. Departures

Sherlock had disappeared presumably to his room, and Mycroft went to bed soon after. He asked Greg to join him, but the DI declined his request with his face buried in his hands to avoid seeing the disheartened expression on the other man's face. Greg was exhausted but too overwhelmed to sleep and, quite frankly, he did not want to be around Mycroft right now. He'd kip on the sofa if necessary. _That's presuming that I can actually sleep at all, which isn't bloody likely_.

Greg had recently suffered a bout of insomnia brought on by grief, which was now exacerbated by stress and anxiety. He continued sitting on the sofa long after Mycroft and Sherlock departed, just staring into space, thinking. At some point he got up and wandered Mycroft's study aimlessly, running his hand over the desk, the bookshelves, the statue in the corner, anchoring himself to the present moment with the tactile sensations beneath his calloused fingertips: polished wood, leather bindings, cold marble. How did it come to this? When did it come to this?

He ambled through the quiet flat. He doubted that Mycroft was asleep, but he didn't want to brave the bedroom to check, though he did linger on the threshold for several moments before moving on. Sherlock rarely slept, and Greg stood outside his door too, before walking away. Sherlock had been behaving out of character, and the DI wasn't sure if that included divergent sleep patterns. Greg didn't know that he had it within him to have a conversation with the recently resurrected at this point. His mind was a tangled web of joy, guilt, anger, and confusion.

Greg ended up in the kitchen without quite knowing how he'd arrived there. He made some coffee and sat down at the table, hunched over his cup. Everything was still and calm. Nothing went bump in the night. The silence was soothing in its way. Greg placed his head down on the table for a moment, just a moment, and he closed his eyes against the burning sensation of too much: Sherlock dying and coming back against all odds, Greg's relief, his happiness, his guilt, his grief, the betrayal, the confusion, uncertainty, and anger. He just wanted to block it all out for a moment, feel nothing at all.

When his eyelids fluttered open, there was a grey pre-dawn light streaming through the window. Greg blinked blearily and lifted his head when he heard the thunk of something being placed on the wooden surface near his nose. Sherlock was leaning back against the counter, holding a mug of coffee. The sound that Greg had heard was the younger man placing a matching cup of steaming liquid for him.

"Good morning," Sherlock said innocently.

"Morning," The DI responded dazedly. It was a shock to have Sherlock in the kitchen making coffee after having so forcefully resigned himself to never seeing Sherlock anywhere but photographs and his memories.

The DI sipped the beverage cautiously. It was hot and strong and prepared the way that he preferred. He sighed after the first swallow of caffeine hit his bloodstream, fortifying his body and his mind.

"I don't suppose there's anything that I can say that'll make you stay?" Greg broached the subject directly after a few minutes' silence.

"No." Sherlock replied simply with furrowed brows.

"Right then," Greg had had some time to reflect last night and there were things that needed to be said, "Sherlock I thought that you were dead...That you killed yourself."

Greg held the cup between his two hands, leaning on the table with his elbows and giving Sherlock the most serious and earnest expression he could manage. This was important, and if Sherlock was going to go off to points unknown to get himself into all sorts of trouble without anyone to have his back (_bloody idiot and his bloody stupid "alone protects me" shite_) while he was in a clearly fragile condition, Greg needed to say some things.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said tersely, "I am aware."

"Well, I blamed myself, all right?" the older man (who felt every single one of his years weighing upon him) stated firmly, "I thought I helped to drive you to it. I—I'm, Sherlock, I'm sorry for whatever part I played…I didn't mean to betray you. I would never do that on purpose. And I—I never believed what they said about you, never doubted you—as far as I'm concerned—"

"Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted, considering him seriously and with remarkably little condescension (at least for Sherlock), "Don't be an idiot. This was not your doing. As even _you_ can see, I am clearly _fine_."

"Ha, not bloody likely. Sherlock, I'm _serious_ here."

"I _know_."

"No, you _don't_, because if you did, you wouldn't be about to do what you're planning. Which, by the way, is a totally _bollocks_ idea and I—"

"Yes, you've made your position _quite_ clear."

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee in a not so subtle attempt to stymie this particular lecture. His expression had not changed in the slightest since the beginning of the conversation, and Greg slammed his hand down on the table to emphasize that he was not yet finished here.

"I was _devastated_ because I bleeding love you like you were my own, more so even, and spent two weeks thinking that you'd killed yourself and I was mostly to blame for it," he paused, "I get that you've got your bloody _stubborn_ mind set on this _stupid_ mission, and I can't stop you, but you listen to me, and you listen bloody close: you be _careful_. Because I swear to God, if you come home in a body bag, I will _never _forgive you…or myself. And I will not be able to handle it. I just won't."

Sherlock spent several seconds just staring at Greg. The DI rather hoped that the impassive expression was a cover for a serious contemplation of his words, which was all that Greg could really hope for given the circumstances and his audience.

"I shall take the _utmost_ care," he promised, sincere to the point of sarcasm, and Greg didn't quite believe him. Sherlock seemed volatile. He was quiet, and subdued, but it was as if the filter that he kept present, the one that made him follow the rules that mere mortals were expected to (when it suited him), was gone. Moriarty had taken much from Sherlock, had placed him in a situation where his friends, his family, his reputation, his profession, his life were all in tatters, and Greg was under the very strong impression that Sherlock was not going to be following any man's rules but his own for the time being. It was a vaguely unsettling notion and it was further emphasized by the cold empty look in his eyes. Mycroft made laws for other people to follow (he considered himself above all of them) and Sherlock played along with them (to a degree, when he felt like it, or it was convenient) because it added a more challenging aspect to the game. Greg knew that it was a voluntary choice on his part because really, who could stop him if he got something into his head. Now, that desire to play along was gone, thrown out the window (or perhaps off the top of a certain hospital) in favor of a more pragmatic approach governed entirely by his own sense of right and wrong.

"I'm serious, Sherlock, be _careful_," Greg was trying very hard to get Sherlock to take him seriously and he hoped that wherever the consulting detective had gone, he was still reachable in this appeal.

Mycroft walked into the kitchen at that precise moment, like Sherlock fully dressed in a crisp suit (Greg was still wearing his jeans and shirt from the day before).

He surveyed Greg's tired face and worried countenance and Sherlock's cold distant stare. The young man was already working mentally on this latest, most important case and it was taking him into a darker portion of himself. If Mycroft were to be completely honest, it worried him just as much (if not more than) it worried Greg.

"Good morning, boys," he said, picking up the newspaper, pouring himself a cup of tea, and sitting at his customary place at the head of the table.

"Sherlock, your ride will be here momentarily."

"So soon?" Greg said quickly.

"I've already told you, I am not taking one of your cars," Sherlock spat narrowing his eyes considerably.

"Oh for heaven's _sake_, how else were you planning on travelling, by _foot_?" Mycroft's brows grazed his hairline.

"I am capable of making my own way—"

"Take the car, Sherlock," Greg said quickly, cutting off the argument before it could escalate, "I get that you don't want us following you, but I will _personally_ feel better if you at least start off with some back up. Besides," he sighed, "we all know that you'll shake whatever security detail Mycroft assigns to you as soon as you like with no trouble at all."

Mycroft was torn between being impressed by Greg's diplomatic skills, annoyed and proud of the fact that Sherlock really would be able to evade his team with no effort, and concerned that he really had no control over this situation at all. Sherlock was mostly expressionless, but a line had appeared between his brows.

"Very well."

The three men sat in silence for a few moments more.

"How long will you be gone?" Greg asked and he and Mycroft both looked at Sherlock. The former was open with his anxiety; the latter tried to conceal it but failed miserably.

"I don't know."

"Right," Greg said and he felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as the moment of farewell approached rapidly. _I don't think it's going to go away any time soon either. _He made a mental note to stock up on antacids and maybe finally start using those meditation tapes he had bought a few years ago. "Well, keep in touch as much as possible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded briefly.

"_Sherlock_…" Mycroft said warningly.

"Yes, _fine_," the consulting detective conceded. Mycroft's phone vibrated and he glanced at it before folding the paper he'd been holding (though not reading) and slowly rising to his feet. Greg jumped out of his chair far more quickly than his tired aching joints would have liked.

"It's time to go."

Sherlock donned his scarf and looked at them both. _Fuck it_, Greg thought. He walked across the kitchen and took the boy into his arms.

"Take care, all right?" he said gruffly, squeezing the boy in a tight embrace, "Come back in one piece."

Sherlock nodded, Greg felt the sharp chin jab his shoulder, "Greg," Sherlock said, and it was as signal for the DI to listen very carefully to whatever was about to be whispered, "Look in on John, would you?" There was a pleading note to the voice, and this was as human as Sherlock had sounded since he had come back, perhaps ever. For some reason, this appeal, genuine, and heart felt, and concerned made Greg want to cry: for John, for Sherlock, for himself, for the fact that this was a bloody horrible way for any of them to live.

The DI nodded assertively. He knew that the main reason that Sherlock had let him in on this great secret was so that he would be better able to care for John, "Course I will. I'll look after him. Don't you worry. Right?" Greg gave the consulting detective one final squeeze and then pulled back clearing his throat purposefully.

The Holmes brothers considered each other.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

_Idiots_, thought Greg, rolling his eyes at their foolishness. _Now is not the time for this nonsense._

"Do _behave_ yourself," by which, of course, Mycroft meant: _I love you; be careful; if anyone harms you, I will kill them myself_.

"Behave _yourself_," Sherlock said, by which he meant: _I am currently operating on self-destruct and the likelihood of involving myself in a dangerous situation has increased dramatically. You're welcome to kill whomever you like in response to that, just stay out of my way._

_Nothing like a simple relationship in this family_, Greg mused as he interpreted the unspoken conversation.

The three of them walked to the door together, then Mycroft and Greg watched Sherlock sweep out, leaving the two of them alone.

"So," Mycroft said.

"So," Greg replied.

"Well you know that he is _alive_. You understand _why_."

"Yeah," neither of them was facing the other. Instead, they continued staring at the closed door, the finality of it and the uncertainty of it. There was only a foot of space between them but it might as well have been an oceanic trench; the tension was palpable, despite their nonchalant voices.

"I know that you are _upset_," Mycroft clasped his hands before him, "It is _understandable_, given the circumstances."

"Glad you think so," Greg turned to face the carefully, studiously composed man beside him.

"That isn't want I _meant_."

"I know it isn't," the DI admitted.

"There was a _sniper_ aiming a _gun_ at your _head_, Gregory," Mycroft stared at him pointedly, willing him to understand, and Greg was trying to, honestly he was, "What would you have had me _do_? You had to _believe_ this falsehood in order to be kept alive."

"Then why tell me _now_?"

Mycroft spoke candidly, "Because I couldn't watch you suffer anymore."

Greg inhaled sharply and realized that Mycroft's devastation may not have been completely faked. Regardless of the circumstances, he was clearly strained, and Greg was conflicted. Part of him wanted to take Mycroft into his arms, part of him wanted to scream at him until he was hoarse.

"But you could do it for the past two weeks? That was all right?"

"What do you _want_ from me, Gregory? I do not _regret_ it. It was the only way to keep you alive. I would rather you be hurting but breathing than the alternative."

Mycroft held Greg's gaze before continuing, "You _know_ that if I could have I would have informed you. I did not want to continue _lying_ to you by any means….I _needed_ you to know. For you, for myself, and for Sherlock. For John as well."

Greg shifted tactics, "This isn't going to go well," ne nodded his head towards the closed door.

Mycroft sighed, "I _know_. But we can't very well lock him up—"

"We bloody should've." The fact that Greg was advocating this course of action instead of Mycroft was a true mark of how desperate the situation had become.

"Whatever we would have done, he would have gone his own way in any case, Gregory, you _know_ what he is like. Sherlock is _determined_ to do this his own way," Mycroft was firm but his face told Greg that he was displeased with his brother's errand and deeply troubled by his inability to affect the outcome.

"He's going down a dark path, Mycroft."

"I _know_."

This situation was barely tolerable. It was unconscionable. Greg's mind raced into all the horrible fates that could potentially await Sherlock in his current state. It was so odd. The DI had gone, in less than twenty four hours, from a gaping hole to an obsessive level of worry and concern.

"We just got him _back_…" Mycroft didn't reply to Greg's blatant appeal for comfort. He had none to give, he was just as anxious if not more so. The past few weeks had demonstrated to his elder brother, quite clearly, that Sherlock was highly volatile. However, Mycroft seemed determined not to lie or give any type of false comfort. _One-hundred percent honesty_, Greg reflected, bemoaning his internal hypocrisy, _A little white lie might be useful right about now_.

"I am glad that you told me," Greg admitted, "I'm still angry with you, mind. I'm bloody furious, actually. I can understand why you did it. But we're in this together you and me and Sherlock too. Don't ever do that again."

Mycroft smiled tightly, he would accept this for now. He would accept anything right now.

"What do we do, then?" Greg asked

"We _wait_. I'll keep an eye on him as best as I can. Sherlock will, _undoubtedly_, make that as difficult as possible," Mycroft tried for a conspiratorial grin, but it didn't reach is eyes and it was not returned. There was a grim atmosphere in the air, "Beyond that, we continue our lives as best we can. We maintain the _illusion_ that he is dead. The world must believe it…" he hesitated, paused, as if he knew that what was coming next would be highly unpalatable, which, given the amount of lies, danger, betrayal, tension, grief, and misery, was saying quite a lot, "We look after John."

"We ought to _tell_ him."

Mycroft fixed Greg with a stern glare, "We _can't_. John is the primary target. They _expect_ Sherlock to contact him and they will _know _if he does. John wouldn't be able to hide it. Do you want to have his death on your hands?"

"He might die if we _don't_ tell him," Greg asserted.

"Which is why we will _look_ _after_ him to make sure that eventuality is _not_ realized."

"I don't like this one bit," Greg relented.

"Nor do I," Mycroft confessed, "But it is _necessary_."

"I wish it bloody wasn't," Greg ran a hand over his face, and Mycroft placed his on Greg's arm, a gesture of peace, of aid, of apology.

"It's only for a short while," he said.

But Greg knew that the likelihood of this ending quickly was slim indeed. He nodded tightly, disengaged his arm, and walked away, feeling like a hypocrite and a coward.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Hello my dearest readers! Welcome to Chapter 7! I am sorry for the delay in posting. This week has been beyond busy, but my posting schedule should normalize next week. What did you think of this chapter? Please, leave me a review; let me know what you think. They make me happy and write more quickly. I will respond to the reviews from last chapter today!_

_Look for the newest installment on Monday._


	8. Lies

_John is a bloody mess_, was Greg's first thought when he saw the ex-army doctor turned blogger-detective, turned grieving bloody widower for the first time after Sherlock left on his "mission." This was quickly followed by his second thought: _This is bloody __terrible_.

He hadn't wanted to see John; couldn't stomach it really. Thought of every excuse he could come up with and attempted to justify avoidance as much as he could. Each one fell flat. His conscience, the honorable man, who knew right from wrong, always looked out for the underdog, and tried to help when he could, had recoiled and then sprung back with a stern glare and some harsh rebuttals**: **_**Gregory Lestrade, that man bloody needs you and you are going to help him or so help me…**_Funny how the voice sounded a bit like his mum. _**You promised Sherlock that you'd look out for him! You promised **__**John**__**. You promised **__**yourself**_**. **_** Now, get up off your arse and keep your bloody word.**_

He didn't want to mention to the voice that going to see John would involve a fair bit of lying and evasion. He could barely stand the guilt and he hadn't even done anything yet. _Well unless you count not calling John the __second__ that I found out Sherlock was alive._ Greg did count that.

When Greg told Mycroft where he was going, the man had looked at him with a saddened expression, and gripped his tea cup tightly (to restrain himself from getting up and pulling Greg into his arms, no doubt). If he didn't know any better, Greg would have thought that Mycroft looked riddled with guilt for having placed his partner in such an impossible and horribly painful situation. _**Don't be an idiot**_, the voice admonished again, hands on hips, _**of course**__** he feels guilty. He's been feeling nothing but remorse for the past two weeks and bit before, and, if you can't see that, you're a bloody idiot. Of course he doesn't want to put you in this spot—**_

_Shut up! Jesus bleeding Christ_. Greg countered, shaking his head and hoping that would clear his thoughts. _If things weren't already bad enough, now I'm being told off in my own bleeding mind_.

He came back to himself and focused on Mycroft, who was clearly taking great pains to remain seated in a mildly composed attitude. _Must be bloody exhausting to keep it up_. Mycroft may have _lied_ to him, but he had also born his grief, taken care of him, dealt with his own anxiety about Sherlock alone, planned his brother's funeral, and attempted to look after John (with absolutely no success). He had also taken a fair bit of (undeserved) blame about the circumstances of Sherlock's demise from several corners, and his own personal (now increased by Greg's damning) guilt over Sherlock's real situation and the effort necessary to maintain it.

Greg honestly wasn't sure how to balance all of these things. He was mildly amazed that Mycroft was still standing, but then, Mycroft always did have the ability to surprise him, and, in this case, he shouldn't have expected anything less. The DI had only been brought to terms with what was going on twenty-four hours ago and already he was a jittery, jumpy, manic mess. _How the bloody hell does he do this_? Greg was cleanly torn between seeking and giving comfort in any way available to the two of them and berating Mycroft for not only helping to engineer this system but including him in it. Though he knew the truth, Greg was now required to actively participate in propagating the lie, not least, to someone that he genuinely liked, cared for, and was suffering tremendously at the moment. _Did Mycroft feel like this every bloody day?_ Greg wanted to hug him, but refrained forcibly.

"Going to see John?" Mycroft inquired delicately.

"Yeah, suppose so," Greg squared his shoulders and scuffed his foot on the floor, trying to dispel the nervous energy.

"It shan't be easy," Mycroft said, scanning Greg's face, noticing and cataloguing all of the added wrinkles, the dark circles that blossomed like bruises beneath his eyes, the more rapidly greying hair, undoubtedly to charge himself with each at a later time.

"And don't I bleeding know it," Greg sighed, ruffling his hair with his left hand (a nervous tic that Mycroft usually found endearing and that had become downright poignant given their current standing and situation. He, of course, didn't not mention this, presently.) Analyzing the situation, in a typically Holmesian way, he recognized that pushing Greg in any direction would be problematic at the least. Instead, Mycroft held his place, stood his ground, vowed to steer Greg through these troubled waters, steer the two of them through, as best he could. Greg just continued mussing his hair, unsure of what to think, knowing that going to see John was the right thing to do and hating himself all the more for not wanting to go.

"Gregory, you _must_ remember—"

"I bloody _know_, Mycroft," he rumbled, "doesn't mean I have to _like_ it."

"But you will—?"

Greg looked like a man about to sacrifice something epic, something valuable, important, integral to his character. Mycroft was seized with the sudden, impulsive desire to tell him to stop, that it wasn't necessary, but he couldn't.

"I _will_," the DI said as if it were costing him a great deal, "I'll lie to John and I'll play pretend, but it won't bloody go well, and he'll hate me for it when he finds out." Neither entertained the possibility of the "if" being used. They had reached a tacit agreement between themselves that if things were to go wrong with Sherlock's mission, John was not to know that Sherlock had survived the fall. They had agreed that it would be far too cruel to the doctor to reveal that Sherlock had survived only to die later. _If John doesn't break before then_, Greg mused bitterly, _that will be what finally does him in. You don't come back from something like that. None of us bloody would_. He steadfastly tried to avoid the part he was playing in John's continued unraveling.

"_Do_ you hate me?" Mycroft asked, so softly it might have been a whisper, and, though the tones were hushed, and the voice was clipped and clear, there was a lingering uncertainty beneath the question that squeezed Greg's heart painfully and twisted.

"No," he answered, emphatically, reflexively, without thinking. He had responded so quickly that he had to take a moment to reflect on whether he had told the truth or lied out of some misguided attempt to spare Mycroft any sort of pain. His partner looked surprised. _Does he really think that I __hate__ him? _Greg questioned himself almost disbelievingly.

"I don't hate you, Mycroft," he admitted, still keeping his distance, and staring right into Mycroft's eyes, "I don't hate you. I'm not particularly chuffed with you either..."

Mycroft considered his sincerity and the barest ghost of a smile flitted across his face, "Well that _is _something."

"I suppose," Greg acknowledged.

"Give my regards to Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, by which he meant _please, I know this is difficult, but remember __why__ you're doing it. It won't make it any easier, but it might help you sleep at night_.

"I will, though I doubt he'll appreciate them."

Mycroft contemplated that for a moment, and then said, seriously, "No, I don't suppose he _will_. He seemed positively _horrified_ when I stopped by to inquire over his health."

Greg rolled his eyes and felt, for the briefest moment that they had been transported back in time before all of this had happened, when bantering about Sherlock and John, surveillance, and life was simple and easy and natural between them, "Did your 'inquiry' involve breaking and entering?"

Mycroft surveyed Greg in a suggestive way, "Is it _really_ breaking and entering if you own the nation and you've been charged with the _care_ of your younger brother's…_John_?"

"That's what I thought," the DI muttered, "I'll be back late," Greg wanted to be back as _early _and as quickly as possible, but doubted that was feasible.

"Good luck," Mycroft said earnestly.

Greg was nervous approaching John's flat. He felt like he might be about to suffer a panic attack and this was a man who had been under fire (literally and figuratively) multiple times in his life. His palms were sweaty and so was his forehead. His breaths were short, and he was literally shaking. He had to stop two streets from 221B in order to catch his breath, calm down, and find his resolve again. _John needs you, mate_, he scolded, _so go be there_. _Even if it means feeding him lies that will only make things worse_, he added with disgust and resignation. Greg was beginning to understand that he ought to just resolve himself to these misgivings.

He finally felt that he was composed enough to see the blogger. It was with squared shoulders and a raised chin that he entered the flat.

John was making tea and he poured a cup for Greg as well. The two sat in what, for Greg, was quite possibly the most painful and awkward silence humanly possible. A large part of him was screaming, _tell him and damn the consequences. It's the right thing to do. Just TELL HIM!_ The rational portion counseled against this, kept his mouth glued shut, and his jaws locked together so tightly that it hurt in order to prevent any uncontrolled outburst or revelations.

"I visited his—the, ah, grave yesterday," John said quietly, gazing at his tea rather than Greg's face, and the DI gripped his mug with such ferocity that it was a wonder that it didn't shatter to pieces.

"Did you?" he asked in what he hoped was a neutral tone (_Tell him it's empty. There's nothing to mourn. Sherlock is ALIVE!_).

John nodded almost imperceptibly. Both men were avoiding speech, John to keep from breaking down, Greg to keep from eliminating John's reason for tears. Just looking at the blogger was killing him. John was hurting, he was aching, he was experiencing a type of agony that Greg had felt and knew well. It was sharp and burning. It left you raw and bloody and empty. As soon as you thought you might be starting to heal, you were hit with a fresh wave of pain even more powerful than the last, a wave that pulled you under, drowning in a sea of depression, guilt, grief, and pain, so strong that you could barely bring yourself to fight the tide. Greg could see that look on John's face. He could wipe it away, clean it clear off, he had the power to do so, but he didn't. He couldn't. It was John's life at stake (though what type of life you could call this, he didn't know), it was Sherlock's, and his own, and Mycroft's. It was risky, dangerous, and it was down to him. Though it cost him a great deal, he chose not to say a word. Instead, he watched John suffer; knowing that he could put a stop to it and refraining for the sake of the "greater bloody good." He hated himself for his hypocrisy. He would take this guilt as his punishment, dwell on it and bring it out, and worry it, because he deserved no less.

"I ah thought," John cleared his throat and clenched and unclenched his hand reflexively, licked his lips, blinked rapidly, "um, I ah thought that I—I _saw_ him."

_Oh fuck, _Greg's mind worked quickly, _did__ he see him? _Or was this just his grief laced mind playing tricks? Where _was_ Sherlock yesterday afternoon? Had he gone to the cemetery, knowing that John would be there, desperate for one last glimpse of him before heading off on a case from which he might not return? To say a silent goodbye that the blogger wouldn't be able to hear? To take the image of John devastated, crushed, and mourning with him when he went, as a reminder of why he needed to succeed, as a hope to come home, as a way to punish himself for the condition in which he'd left John? _Bloody fucking hell_. Greg felt torn up inside, worrying over both of them, dying because of how intensely bloody dangerous that would have been for Sherlock, about how _good_ of a man his boy had become and of how much he must love John if he was willing to take such a stupid risk, _just the latest in a long bloody line of stupid_.

"Did you?" he hoped that his own voice was steady because his mental voice was becoming quite squeaky in its extremity.

John nodded, "Just my bloody imagination." He sounded so sad, so dismissive, and Greg wanted to draw him up, take him by the shoulders, and scream in his face that it most likely _wasn't_ his imagination because Sherlock was an _idiot_ and it was all going to be bloody fine. Instead he bowed his head mournfully and tried to think of how he would have responded if John had said this two days ago, "I know, John."

John nodded and the two sat for a bit just quietly sharing space, each dealing with their own personal internal hell. When Greg left an hour later, he was relatively sure that staying silent had been one of the most challenging things that he had ever had to do and he was both proud of and disgusted with himself for having succeeded. _Beat yourself up once you're far away from here_, he reminded himself. It wouldn't do to let something slip, though his eyes were shooting messages of hope to John with such dogged clarity that Greg was sure they might soon pop out of his head with the strain.

It was only once he had clapped John on the shoulder, shut the door firmly behind himself, and nearly collapsed when he reached the street, that he allowed himself to appreciate the way that John's military stoicism seemed to have asserted itself. Greg couldn't decide if this was good, because it meant that John was pulling himself together, or bad, because he was getting better at hiding the fissures and pain from the DI, who would not be aware of the extent of his troubles until they exploded in a truly gruesome way. He vowed to keep an even closer eye on John, no matter how exhausting, devastating, or generally difficult it was. Caring for John was an extension of caring for Sherlock, so closely were the two men linked for Greg, and he would gladly do both. He thought long and hard about this as he made his way home, and, when he reached the flat, he collapsed on the nearest sofa in a heap of exhaustion. Mycroft looked up from the book he was reading.

"How was it?"

"Bloody _awful_," Greg groaned.

"I expected as much."

"How did you _do _it?" Greg asked, genuinely puzzled by the amount of effort it took to control his impulse to confess everything.

Mycroft considered him seriously, "I knew the _stakes_."

Greg closed his eyes; he knew the stakes too, "Mycroft I—"

But the other man just shook his head. He spread a blanket across Greg and looked down on him softly, brushing his hand over the DI's silver hair gently. It had been far too long since Greg had had Mycroft's skin on his own, and his eyes closed instinctively at the contact, "_Hush_, Gregory," the elder Holmes said softly, "sleep now, we'll talk in the morning."

Greg, who hadn't slept properly in weeks, felt his eyes weighed down, closing slowly, but he noticed, as he began to drift off, that Mycroft didn't leave the room to go to bed. No, he seated himself across from Greg, and settled himself in, fingers pressed to his mouth, watching over Greg, watching over all of them, yet again.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 8. I hope you enjoyed. Please, leave a review and share your thoughts! I should be back to more regular posting as of the end of this week. Thanks for sticking with me (and this story) through my crazy schedule. There should be a random one-shot on Wednesday (also known as a No Words intermission) and then the next chapter by Friday or Saturday. _

_Much love._


	9. Waiting

Waiting for news of Sherlock was, in some ways, almost worse than having to let him go. Greg was on edge, lost a great deal of sleep, jumped at sudden noises, left his mobile phone on at all times, and reacted so strongly to any incoming message that he had broken several valuables, spilled quite a few scalding hot beverages on himself, and frankly startled the people around him in his attempts to answer as quickly as possible. The messages, calls, and texts were never from Sherlock, not a single one. They were dull, unimportant, trivial, boring. They did not come bearing the information that Greg so desperately needed.

He had spent two weeks trying to reconcile himself to Sherlock's death. He had now, officially, spent the same amount of time knowing that he was alive. All things considered, the past two weeks had been equally unbearable, but in a completely different way. This was due to the fact that Greg wasn't sure that the consulting detective _was_ still alive. He tried to remind himself that if something _had_ happened, Mycroft would know. Mycroft _always_ knew. Greg also attempted to focus on his own personal belief that, since the whole debacle with the pseudo-death and lying, Mycroft was not likely to _withhold_ critical information about anything from Greg right now, not without dire consequences.

The trouble was that Mycroft hadn't heard _anything_. _Not a bloody word_. This only made Greg more concerned. If Mycroft hadn't heard news, was it because there was no news to be had or because there was no longer a Sherlock to give it? He spent every day wondering if Sherlock was off somewhere, under some assumed alias with some absurd and convincing disguise. Was he killing people? Had he fallen in a back alley somewhere far away? Turned back to cocaine as a coping mechanism? Was he alone, a corpse, truly gone this time, with no one to mourn him, like so many of the bodies that he himself had deduced? Greg had nightmare visions of all of these possibilities every night (when and if he finally managed to fall asleep). It would have been better if he and Mycroft were sharing a bed. He could have turned and folded himself into a comforting embrace, and they could have chased the shadows away for each other, taking and receiving what they both so badly needed. Then maybe Greg would be at peace, and then maybe he would be able to rest for at least a moment. Unfortunately, Greg was sleeping (if you could call it that) in the guest room, and Mycroft in their bedroom (although, to be fair, it seemed that Mycroft actually passed his evenings in his study, and, whether he slept on the sofa there or spent the night working, Greg didn't know or dare to ask). They were both miserable and anxious to the point of distraction.

When Greg had asked when they should expect news, Mycroft had replied tersely, "A short while, I expect."

"A short while" was an unfortunately loosely defined period of time in which stress and anxiety came in ebbs and flows. It created a state of limbo and tension continued within the house. Greg both desperately craved and viciously dreaded receiving an update from Mycroft (to whom it would undoubtedly come) when and if it came. To make matters worse, the two of them continued to tiptoe around one another in endless circles that made Greg's head and heart ache in equal measure. He always advocated practical solutions but he couldn't see one here. _Probably, because there isn't one, _he admonished regretfully. His sense of honor, justice, loneliness, and concern was so overwhelming that it nearly stifled him every day.

His every conversation with Mycroft was riddled with unease, and this only increased as time passed. The thing which unified them was the concern they felt for Sherlock and their rather strong desire to fix things between themselves, and their absolute inability to do so. Mycroft continually made overtures towards Greg: giving him space, preparing his favorite foods, leaving exceptionally thoughtful gifts that Greg did not particularly want or need. He set them aside with a sigh in the growing pile of ties, football tickets, spa certificates, rare cookbooks, a new apron, and an access pass to several facilities to which he should definitely _not_ be admitted. He interpreted these tokens as gestures of trust, apologies, and attempts to distract Greg from the strain, the pain, and the constant worry. None worked, not really. _Isn't that just __Mycroft__?_ Greg mused, _Extravagant gestures are what he __does_. Sometimes though, it was the simple things that mattered the most, that helped the most, and, unfortunately, circumstances were such that these overtures were impossible.

Greg had been cooking a lot lately, baking mostly. It was time consuming, required his attention, and (most importantly) involved plenty of chopping and dicing to work out his frustration. He didn't acknowledge that everything that he was making was meant for someone he loved. The chocolate cake on Monday had been for Mycroft, the baklava on Tuesday for Sherlock, the strawberry jam tarts today were for John, though Mycroft would enjoy them as well. Perhaps this was Greg's offer, his way of trying to take care of everyone in the only way that he presently could. It was certainly a viable means of distracting himself from the present situation.

He had also gone back to the Yard this week. He couldn't just wait for news. He thought it might be hard to face everyone, to lie to the people he saw, but he was so overwrought, anxious, and generally despondent, that people mistook his concern for Sherlock and his tension at home for grief. They knew that he was close with consulting detective (probably not _how_ close, though Moffat at the front desk suspected, having seen Greg and Mycroft together multiple times after hours). He was given sympathetic glances, short pats on the shoulder, accompanied by a gruffly spoken, "I'm sorry mate" or "How're you doing?" or "If there's anything you need..." Greg avoided nearly all of them. Donovan and Anderson gave him a wide berth, perhaps inferring (_as if they're bloody capable!_) from Greg's face that any attempt to speak with him might result in their immediate, painful, and completely remorseless strangulation. Greg rather funneled his guilt and hostility towards them; they were an easy target.

The most difficult thing remained visiting John, whose grief was slightly different every day. He appeared stoic now, more stable, but that somehow made Greg more concerned. He understood really. Sometimes things became too much, and you just needed to shut down, close it off, or else you would be dragged into a pit of despair. John was a soldier and he was doctor and he knew quite well how to put on a mask in the in the face of unbearable situations, despair, loss, and devastation. Greg understood too that for John, losing Sherlock was not like anything else. More and more, John refused to mention Sherlock at all, couldn't even say his name. _He must be tortured in the flat by the bloody ghosts_. Sometimes he tried to talk about other things, sometimes Greg forced him to, and sometimes they didn't speak at all. Greg had offered him a place to stay if he wanted to get away, but John continued to refuse. They sustained this ritual every evening without fail, though the slight variations (what type of food Greg tried to force John to eat, what they talked about, what they didn't, how exhausted John appeared, which increased every day) made the evening torture somewhat surprising.

Greg threw himself into these activities: cooking, working, taking care of John, in an attempt to deal with the precarious circumstances with Sherlock: the lack of news, the incessant worry, the tension.

That was the state of affairs when Greg came home from a particularly painful dinner with John, who had refused to eat, rebuffed all attempts to talk about anything other than the weather, and looked so horribly bereft that Greg felt the strain of his own silence more powerfully than ever. He came home with a headache and a heavy heart.

"My," he called, as he crossed the threshold, tossing his coat over the nearest chair, "I really hope you've got something a bit stronger than tea because I am bloody—" but he pulled up short at the sight that waited for him when he walked into Mycroft's study. The room held not one but two Holmes', both of whom turned immediately and in tandem to face Greg whose gormlessly shocked face was quickly supplanted with a cheek splitting grin. He crossed the room, pulled Sherlock to his feet, and into a hug before anyone could react.

"_Lestrade_," Sherlock protested.

"Shut up, you prat," Greg said, and Mycroft laughed, "It's bloody good to see you alive, but we've got to stop these near misses and such, all right? My old heart can't take it."

He pulled back and looked at Sherlock, slightly dreading what he would see when he did. Rightly so. Sherlock appeared nearly as drawn as John. He was paler (_didn't think that was possible_), thinner (making his jutting cheekbones and the hollows beneath them even more sharply pronounced), his hair was shaggier than was customary, and his eyes were over-bright

(and appeared larger in his increasingly emaciated face). It was a rather startling change in two weeks, though to be fair, it had been a _long_ two weeks, and Greg had no notion what Sherlock had been doing during that time. Greg felt uneasy and he turned to shoot an inquiring glance at Mycroft, who had been watching this "tender" scene unfold, and immediately held up his hands and arched his brows in a gesture of innocence and uncertainty.

"I didn't know, Gregory."

"My arrival was something of a _surprise_ for my omniscient brother," Sherlock stated, unable to resist the pointed attack on Mycroft's abilities, but confirming his brother's honesty. Mycroft looked slightly more relaxed by Sherlock's presence and didn't acknowledge his younger brother's verbal dart beyond a mildly good-natured eye-roll. The familiarity of the gesture made Greg grin even wider.

"Have you eaten anything?" He asked quickly, "I can make you something, or we can order in."

"No," Sherlock looked disgusted.

Now it was Greg's turn to roll his eyes, "I know you have that _stupid _rule about 'not eating' when you're on a case and all, but you're done now and—"

Sherlock interrupted Greg with a short and bitter guffaw that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end, "Oh, Lestrade, your faith in my abilities is _touching_, but I can assure you that this case is _far_ from over." There was steely glint in Sherlock's eyes that belied the slightly stooped nature of his frame. Greg felt all the wind go right out of his sails, and Mycroft had the decency to look both shocked and upset. _Least I'm not the only one bloody appalled by this __lunacy_.

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft began sternly, "You've had your _fun_, now I believe the time has come for you to—"

"What? Leave this to the dimwitted incompetents you have the audacity to refer to as 'professionals'?"

"There are _perfectly_ suited to the job, besides which this _outing_ is beginning to exact a wholly _unnecessary_ toll on all—"

"Do you _honestly_ believe that John's life is '_unnecessary_?' That I would stop this if there were even the _slightest_ chance that he was in danger?" Sherlock and Mycroft were squaring off, the younger was incensed, and the elder, to his credit, was attempting to control his rising temper, "Or that those _idiots_ that cater to your every whim are actually _capable _of a task of this magnitude? Are you _actually_ that _stupid_?"

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft was appealing to rationality and sanity, and Greg, who usually attempted to mitigate these arguments was wholly, completely, and unabashedly on his side, or he would be once he regained the ability to speak in light of this most recent shock to his system, _who are you bloody kidding, Greg, did you really think he'd be back this quickly? I bloody hoped. Fucking stupid._ "I would obviously _not_ entrust John or Gregory's care to someone incapable; however, we are also _concerned_ with your well-being, which, _incidentally_ you have made _increasingly_ difficult to monitor..." Mycroft glared reprovingly; Sherlock smirked back unabashedly and somewhat manically, which was when Greg decided to chime in.

"You could have at _least_ had the decency to send us a bloody sodding postcard!" He fairly shouted. He didn't know who looked more shocked, Mycroft for Greg's blatant bias support falling in his favor, or Sherlock who was clearly unsettled by Greg both so clearly demonstrating his alliance (in an unfavorable direction) and raising his voice (which he hardly _ever_ did). _And if he can't deduce why I'm fucking upset, I swear to god, I will __murder__ him myself._

"Not a bloody word for _weeks_, Sherlock! _Weeks_! No texts, no phone calls, not a bloody peep, not even to say 'just so you know, I'm not dead!' Have you _any_ idea what that's been like?"

Sherlock just blinked at him. Mycroft looked on torn between approval and a desire to remind Greg to watch his blood pressure. _Sod that_.

"No, of course not. Well, I'll tell you what it's like. It's bloody awful. Neither of us" he gestured viciously back and forth between himself and Mycroft before crossing his arms and continuing his tirade, "had any _clue_ if you were even _alive_ or where you've been. Not an inkling. Meanwhile, I'm lying to bloody everyone, not least John," Sherlock's head jerked in response to the name, and Greg reprovingly, "Yeah, that's right, _John_, who is goddamn devastated and miserable and fucking broken. Not to mention your _brother_," Mycroft turned his attention to Greg, "who has been so bloody _worried_ about you that I doubt that he's slept a bloody wink in the past month," Sherlock made to interrupt, but Greg was not having it, "You will let me finish. Now, we are all sodding worried about you, and you don't even have the common _decency_ to let us know that you're _alive_. That is _not_ okay."

When he had finished, there was a ringing silence. Mycroft continued gazing at Greg. Sherlock did as well with an impassive expression that was frayed slightly at the edges with something that resembled guilt (at least, that's what Greg hoped it was).

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft said after several moments of silence.

Sherlock glanced at his elder brother, adopting the expression of a sulky six year old who had been caught pulling a prank on a maiden aunt and must now observe the appropriate niceties.

"I _apologize_," he said, and his tone did hold a trace of sincerity beneath the resentment. Greg accepted it for what it was. He was increasingly becoming concerned with the way that Sherlock seemed less and less like the man he had become and more and more like the boy he had been, closed-off, indifferent, and distant. The DI did not like it one bit.

"_Don't_ do it again, Sherlock," he said instead of giving voice to these concerns, which, judging by the expression that Mycroft wore, were shared between them. _We'll talk about this later_, his partner's eyes said.

"Very _well_," Mycroft said in a put upon voice, which he was using to convey more reluctance and thus less suspicion with his brother than he actually was experiencing, "If you insist on continuing this _plan_ you will _contact_ _Gregory _or _myself_ once every forty-eight hours."

Sherlock glowered and made to protest, but Greg cut him off with a sharp and warning, "Sherlock!"

Mycroft continued, "That will be our _arrangement_, or I _will_ 'call out the troops,' as it were. Do we _understand_ one another?"

There was a lengthy pause and a nonverbal conversation between the Holmes' in which Sherlock was clearly thinking "I would like to see you _try_" and Mycroft squashed that with a very serious "Oh, do _not_ tempt me, or we will see just how _far_ my reach extends." After ten seconds, détente was reached, largely because Greg, once again, took Mycroft's side.

"That is the bloody agreement, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced between the two of them and gave a curt, condescending nod, "Very well," before turning on his heel and leaving the room in a clear strop. _I swear his is __five__ bloody years old sometimes_.

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft interrupted his thoughts.

"You were in the right of it," the DI replied, "Where is he off to?"

Mycroft walked over to his desk, poured them both a healthy dose of brandy and handed one to Greg before gesturing vaguely, as the DI took a large swallow, "Oh, you know my brother, off to _skulk_ somewhere, deduce something…find John Watson…"

Greg almost choked, almost, "Find John—you can't be _serious_. He knows how _dangerous_ that is? What's the bloody point of all of this if he's just going to-?"

Mycroft placed a steading hand on his forearm and searched his eyes, "That's rather the _point_, Gregory, he does _know_. He is also _aware_ of the fact that this entire operation could fall apart at the slightest provocation. I imagine, given the _circumstances_, it might be _worth_ the risk."

His eyes clearly conveyed the fact that, if his and Sherlock's situations were reversed, Mycroft would do the same, forsake logic and reason and throw his carefully laid plans aside in order to even catch a glimpse of Greg. The DI felt something catch in his throat.

"My, I—" he began, but Mycroft released his arm and stepped back when Greg would have reached out.

"Besides," he continued, "it might keep him coming back."

"Do you think that he really will stay in touch?" Greg asked.

Mycroft laughed sharply, "It is hard to _tell_, Gregory, but I believe he _might_, for your sake."

"He bloody better," he did reach out to Mycroft then, and take his hand, "We can't keep this up forever."

"Oh, I doubt that it will take _quite_ that long," the elder Holmes responded, and Greg snorted derisively.

"You _know_ what I mean, what if-?" Mycroft placed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head sharply.

"I believe that it is _my_ division to concern myself with those eventualities."

"It is _both_ of ours and you know it."

Mycroft smiled; somewhere between grim determination and the agony of not only worrying but knowing that he placed Greg in a situation in which he too had to bear this burden. _It's my burden too_, Greg thought, _I'm willing to bear it and I'd take it for you if you'd bloody __let__ me_. Mycroft seemed to understand because he leaned forward and kissed Greg, softly, carefully, very tentatively before pulling back. It had been far too long, Greg thought, he wanted more but also knew that this was not the moment.

"I'm worried," he admitted.

"As am I."

The DI squeezed Mycroft's hand.

"He'll be all right," he comforted but inside he highly doubted it, Mycroft understood but took his reassurance in the spirit in which it was intended.

"I do hope so."

And when Sherlock left the next morning, looking even more gaunt and stricken than he had the previous evening, Mycroft and Greg watched him leave, hand in hand.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Hi everyone! Welcome to Chapter 9. What did you think? FFN was being a bit crazy for me the past two days (not letting me log in, not telling me if there were reviews), then suddenly it worked and here we have the new chapter. I'll respond to all the things I missed a bit later today. _

_I would *love* to know what you thought of this chapter? Thoughts, feelings, comments? The next chapter will be a bit shorter and a bit of a cliffhanger (fair warning). And, for some unknown reason, the angst is attempting to be broken up with a fluffy Mystrade one-shot. It involves pastries. How do you feel about that happening? _

_Thank you for reading and reviewing and generally being amazing. Look for a new chapter on Monday or Tuesday!_


	10. Summons

That was the way things continued for a time. Sherlock did uphold his bargain, whether out of guilt, a twinge of conscience, a complete unwillingness to take the time away from his mission to outwit and evade the increased surveillance of the British Government was debatable. Greg and Mycroft didn't really care. They were content with cryptic one line responses, random calls from unknown numbers, texts from (undoubtedly stolen) mobiles, and once a hideous post-card (which disappeared after they had finished looking at and decoding it, and which Greg highly suspected that Mycroft, for all of his protests against the worthlessness of sentimentality, had filed away in some hidden stronghold or other. _Bloody packrat_, he thought fondly).

Sherlock didn't ever stay away for very long. He came back to London every two or three weeks, unannounced, unexpected, and always welcome. The most memorable stopover so far had been when he had showed up one morning at four am. Greg knew this because he had gotten up to get a glass of water and had several years taken off of his life when Sherlock greeted him in the darkness.

He didn't stay long, and, each time he returned, he appeared worse. His eyes were larger, the circles beneath them darker, his face gaunter, hair wilder, behavior more erratic. _Well_, Greg furrowed his brows, considering this assessment critically. This strange disappearing act was increasingly becoming their default setting and it was therefore exceedingly difficult to explain exactly what about Sherlock's behavior qualified as erratic. Perhaps, the most unsettling aspect of Sherlock at the moment was that he _wasn't_ behaving in a particularly frenzied way. His focus was intensely directed at two things: destroying Moriarty's network and saving John. The two were inextricably linked. Sherlock didn't want any aid in his pursuit of the former. He had willingly requested help with the latter. The trouble was he did not trust _anyone_ with the care of John's life. No one but himself. The great Sherlock Holmes, though, no matter how unique, could not be in two places at one time. His ultimate goal left him at cross purposes with his desire to destroy Moriarty as quickly and thoroughly as possible. His mission was being stymied by his desire to make absolutely _certain_ that John was, and would continue to be, all right. His only trusted the evidence of his own senses on this point. And he could not adequately assess the situation from half-way around the world.

"That's why he comes home," Greg said to Mycroft, as they sat together on the sofa, Mycroft magisterially gazing into the distance, and Greg hunched into a corner with his feet on Mycoft's lap. Sherlock had come back from a mysterious errand and was scheduled to depart once again, this time in the dead of night. "He doesn't trust us to make sure that John's all right."

Mycroft rested his long fingered hands on Greg's shins, caressing softly, and gazing at the DI somewhat sadly (thinking that the mistrust was not for the pair of them, but only for himself), "Of _course_ he _doesn't_, Gregory."

"He _ought_ to," Greg rumbled, and Mycroft laughed sympathetically (or incredulously, depending on your point of view).

"Gregory, with all _due_ respect, if the situation were _reversed_, and I had to trust _Sherlock_ to look after _you_—let's just say that I would be quite _sure _to periodically check up on you _myself_."

"You Holmes' are a possessive lot," Greg said, torn between fondness and annoyance, "but has it ever occurred to you that _we_ might want to take care of _you_?"

Mycroft's face softened briefly at Greg's earnestness. They were no longer strictly speaking about Sherlock and John, "Why do you _think_ he hasn't told John? He doesn't want him to endanger _himself_."

"It's bloody stupid, that's what it is," Greg glowered, remembering his most recent visit with John, "I would _never_, and I mean it, _never_ forgive you for putting me through that type of hell."

Mycroft considered him seriously, "I _do_ know that, Gregory."

"Promise me that you won't _ever_ pull a stunt like this," Greg demanded, suddenly leaning forward and taking both of Mycroft's hands in his, "I would honestly _not_ be able to deal with it. You might as well just kill me."

"Gregory," Mycroft touched his face gently, tracing the contours of his cheeks, and stared straight into his eyes, "I cannot _promise_ that, of the two of us, I will not be the first to die. _However_," he squeezed Greg's hand tightly, "I _will_ swear to you that I will _never_ fake my own death and conceal it from you." Greg felt like a slight weight had been lifted from his stomach, it was strangely relieving; Mycroft, however, seemed troubled, "I would _not_ do such a thing after watching the consequences unfold." Greg suddenly felt the weight of Mycroft's guilt and responsibility take up the space that his own fear had occupied mere moments before. It was a heavy burden, and he reacted instinctively, urged on by the ache in his heart. He pulled Mycroft in to his chest, folding the man against him, and placing a kiss on his head." Mycroft gripped Greg's arms tightly, as if so thankful to find himself here again, that he was unwilling to let go or be removed from the haven of Greg's arms. Here, he need not be the elder brother or the British Government or the righter of wrongs or the protector of the family. He need only be Greg's My, and that was enough.

"Thank you," Greg whispered sincerely.

"I love you," Mycroft whispered back.

It couldn't be helping Sherlock's condition to see John so torn apart. It must be torture to watch. It was hard enough for Greg, and Greg wasn't dealing with unrequited feelings and being forced to remain tantalizingly out of sight and out of reach. The DI also was not the direct cause of John's grief, just the facilitator of it. Greg never said as much to Sherlock. He had come quite close many, many times, but even as the words hovered on the tip of his tongue, he was never quite able to deliver this particular approbation, not when he only saw Sherlock once every few weeks, and he was never sure, during these brief visits, when or even _if_ he would see him again. Greg couldn't bring himself to add anything to the stricken look that Sherlock perpetually wore these days. However, he personally thought that _this_ was what happened when you grew up thinking that "caring was not an advantage." You finally _do_ start to care about someone, but you can't recognize it, admit, and sure as hell have _no_ idea how to fucking _deal_ with it. It was a fair assessment, all things considered, and Greg's opinion was reinforced by Sherlock's demeanor and behavior.

The DI tried to be supportive, really, he did. He attempted to get Sherlock to talk about the situation, how he felt, but god forbid he actually admit to feeling something, especially that he was having difficulty coping. His reactions to Greg were various: sometimes he made the most disdainful face possible, others he ignored the DI completely, in moments of the most extreme exhaustion, Sherlock looked openly miserable, but maintained that "it would be over soon." This was one of those moments that generated in Greg a resurgent desire hug Sherlock, shake him senseless, and then kill Sherlock and Mycroft's parents.

At the same time that Greg wanted Sherlock to admit that he was upset about John, he wanted Sherlock to not have to worry because brooding would leave him distracted, it was _already_ leaving him distracted, tired, irritable. All of these things were dangerous in an already perilous situation. Every time Sherlock came back, he put himself at risk. Every time he looked in on John, no matter how clever the disguise, he endangered them both. Greg hated himself for being happy to see Sherlock because he understood that it was _imperative_ that the consulting detective stay as far away as possible until this bloody business was finished. He actually agreed with Mycroft on that point. It made him feel guilty, and every time Sherlock left, Greg couldn't help but feel a bit more reluctant. _You'd think it'd be routine by now_, _but it just keeps getting worse_, he mused with a twisting knot in his stomach, as the young man left yet again. Greg wondered how much longer they could all sustain this system. Mycroft was taxed beyond measure, though he tried to hide it. Greg was relatively certain that he himself was aging at a more rapid rate than was natural (though in all honesty, signing on to be a part of this family necessarily entailed premature aging; he was aware of that, he had just never expected it to be quite so extreme. _More the fool I_).

Sherlock had been gone two days. Mycroft and Greg had begun to do regular shifts with John. Regular being loosely defined here. Greg continued to see John once a day. Mycroft, as far as Greg understood, and much to his consternation, though very far from the realm of surprise, would visit John quite randomly. Greg was certain that Mycroft saw his visits as highly scheduled, logical, and determined by complex factors (one of which was undoubtedly the determination to surprise John). John had repeatedly asked Greg to "call off" Mycroft. Of course, when John had asked, there were more expletives involved. In good faith, Greg had mentioned something to Mycroft, but his partner was adamant that his visits with John were necessary.

"He _expects _you, Gregory," Mycroft explained, "He no doubt _modifies_ his behavior _accordingly_. If he is _unprepared_, I shall be better able to _accurately_ determine his _condition_."

"You just like surprising people," Greg maintained.

"Is that against the _law_, Gregory," he inquired archly.

"Not when you bloody make them," the DI grumbled.

"I consider it to be a _perk_," Mycroft smirked before turning serious again, "I _worry_ about John quite as much as _you_ do. I have my _methods_."

Which included surprise visits at inconvenient times and twenty-four hour surveillance through a variety of media. Greg did not particularly support Mycroft's "methods" under usual circumstances. At worst, he down right contested them, at best, he agreed to live and let live as far as such things went. Present circumstances had pushed the DI to actively endorse certain invasive measures, which he had once actively opposed because, when it came to keeping an eye on the boys, he needed the best, and Mycroft had made watching over people a profession.

It was a rainy day, and Greg was at a crime scene. It was awkward to say the least. The cases went much more slowly without Sherlock. Everyone felt his absence on the scene keenly. There was just something missing without the mysterious man in the coat, solving entire cases from seemingly insignificant data and insulting nearly everyone in completely resonant ways. It was strange to be here without him. Greg knew that some members of his team were happy that Sherlock was gone, and he hated them fiercely, but there were some who missed the detective, who had grown fond of him over the years, or, at the very least, had grown accustomed to him. They were kind to Greg. In many ways, they treated him like the grieving man that he was. He accepted their condolences with a nod and a tight-lipped smile, encouraging people to focus on the work as much as possible. He assigned the worst jobs to those that deserved them. _If Anderson or Donovan think they are going to get within a hundred meters of significant evidence in the next few months, they are sorely mistaken. Sorely._ Greg glowered moodily at his coffee cup and shivered slightly in the cold, damp air. He missed Sherlock, too. When he was at a scene, especially, he felt Sherlock's absence, kept expecting him to swoop in dramatically and deduce the hell out of the corpse and the surrounding area. He wondered where Sherlock was now, what he was doing. Greg honestly had no idea. Was he safe? _Probably not_. Was he behaving? _Definitely not_. Was he alive? _God, I hope so._ Was he focused on the dangerous task at hand? Had he returned to certain extra-curricular activities to help calm his mind and smooth the brain work? Greg rather dreaded that scenario. He understood what happened when Sherlock was desperate, and this situation had left him nothing if not that. _He jumped off of a sodding __building__, _Greg reasoned reluctantly, _I'm not quite sure I'd put anything past him right now: murder, larceny, black-mail, torture, smoking, drugs…Jesus… _

Greg also missed having John at the scene. He had been a kindred spirit, and, honestly, _everyone _had liked John. _Well_, Greg qualified, _everyone with an opinion worth a damn_. The team had especially grown fond of the blogger once they realized that he was largely responsible for humanizing Sherlock, making him more tolerable, less abrasive. The Yard had grown rather accustomed to having John and Sherlock as a team, to lose one to death and one to the depths of despair at once was rather a blow to their larger family. People asked after John frequently. Greg generally shrugged in response, shaking his head, and answering, "How do you expect?" People on the force understood; they had seen the families of those who had lost someone. They nodded and moved on, talked about giving John food or sending a note. Based on Greg's interactions with John recently, it seemed highly likely that the current resident of 221B would scoff at the sentiments and toss them away. There was a lot of untouched food in the flat as well as unread mail. Greg just sighed and went back to work.

It was twenty minutes later that he got the text. He was determined to keep all modes of communication open at all times, in case of the (very likely) event of an emergency. He was paranoid about it. He checked his mobile every five minutes at least, like a nervous twitch. He was prepared for news of any variety. Which was why, when he heard the tone, he snatched his phone from his pocket and backed away from the scene; everyone gave him a wide berth. He saw that he had a text….a text from Mycroft. It could just be a reminder to pick up dinner on his way home, a quick note to let Greg know that he would be late or early this evening, or an update to inform him that he had gotten confirmation that Sherlock was alive and well somewhere, performing some unknown activity in secret. Maybe, it was just a wonderfully witty flirtation text to break up his day. It could have been any of these. That was true. But Greg had a creeping sensation running down his spine. He looked at the screen, opened the message, and read:

**221B. Come immediately. It is a matter of some urgency.**

**-Mycroft**

Greg felt chills run up his arms, and he sprinted, without thinking about it and without saying a single word in departure, to the nearest cab.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 10! What did you think? Please, leave a review if you get the chance. It makes me very happy to know what you think._

_Does this qualify as a cliff-hanger? I do hope so. The next chapter will be up by Thursday. _

_You know how during a particularly trying experience you mutter to yourself, "I need a holiday!" I've rather come to the conclusion that Gregory Lestrade needs a holiday. John Watson needs a holiday. Sherlock needs a holiday. So does Mycroft. I'm beginning to contemplate just writing something ridiculous where they all go on vacation together to reward them for surviving this horrific period in their lives. That could be my gift to them and to you. _

_Anyway, thank you for reading and reviewing and favoriting and following. You are all just completely lovely! Let me know what you think!_


	11. Stop

Greg tried to call Mycroft. He tried to text him. He cursed a streak of obscenities at his phone and at the cabbie that would have made his most seasoned officers cringe. He cursed himself for not thinking to drive into work this morning. _What the hell __possessed__ me to think for even a __second__ that __walking__ was a good idea!_ He cursed Sherlock. He cursed Moriarty. He cursed John before instantly regretting it, because, however upset, anxious, and frustrated he was, he was also sure of one thing: his destination. If Mycroft was summoning him to 221B apropos of nothing, there could only be one reason. _Well_, Greg supposed, as his fingers tapped out a nervous tattoo against his thigh, and he shouted at the cabbie to drive _faster_ goddamn it, _there could be a whole host of fucking reasons for a summons_. He tried to dispel the thousands of possibilities from his head, not a single one of them was good. In fact, they all tended towards the catastrophic, or, at the very least, disastrous. This was his life lately. Nothing good was bound to necessarily happen, and, if by some fluke it did, it never came without a catch. Greg was learning to expect the worst and mistrust the best.

He had known something was wrong with John for weeks now. _It would be completely mad to assume that John was doing __fine_. Greg berated himself very harshly for even daring to hope that things were calming down. _Maybe this isn't that bad_, Greg reasoned, _it could just be an emergency check in…in the middle of the afternoon…three hours before I was meant to see John anyway…from Mycroft of all people…oh, fuck. Maybe it isn't even about John? Mrs. Hudson? Jesus, that would be horrible, I can't even begin to think on that…_

By the time he pulled up to Baker Street, he had run his hands through his hair so many times that he was sure he must have left groove marks behind. His traitorous mind had gone through every possible scenario. When the cab came to a stop, Greg chucked money at the driver, jumped onto the curb, and sprinted up to the flat, shoving the door open with a manic fervor born of anxiety; it slammed against the wall with a resounding crash.

Mrs. Hudson, alive and well, scurried out into the corridor. "What in the-? Greg, dear, is something the matter?"

"Oh," Greg hugged the woman tightly, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead as she flustered, "Thank _god_ you're all right."

But Greg was already moving with mounting urgency towards the flight of stairs leading up to John and Sherlock's flat. He ignored Mrs. Hudson's inquiries, as his focus moved steadily towards whatever horrors awaited him behind the door. It felt a bit like he was moving in slow motion. His focus zeroed in, and he was reminded of the times when he had been on a beat, going into an area in which he needed to be heavily armed, facing a gunman, unsure who had been shot down or if he was next. It brought to mind, too, in a horrible and gut twisting way, the fateful day that he had gone to the hospital over a month ago, knowing that Sherlock was in danger and unsure of what to expect. He had felt dread pervade his every cell on that day too. Today was quite a bit like that. It was far too much like that.

The door to the flat was ajar. Greg pushed it open with slight trepidation, a slow deliberate motion that seemed to go on forever. Then, suddenly, he was standing in the sitting room. John was seated in his customary chair, glaring at Mycroft, who was occupying the place that customarily belonged to Sherlock, holding his umbrella tightly between his two hands and watching John like a hawk. Neither man turned when Greg quite forcefully entered the room. Instead, they continued to glare at one another, as the DI's eyes darted around the flat. He was searching for blood, bullet holes, dead assassins, Sherlock, who had finally snapped and revealed himself or else died in the attempt. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing out of its proper place. John was mercifully alive and seemingly unharmed (_well, no more so than usual; there didn't seem to be any physical injuries at least_). Greg heaved an audible sigh of relief and sent a silent prayer of thanks on that score. He was so grateful that he had to stop for a moment in order to remember that he had been _called_ here, and he would _not_ have been summoned without a _reason_. If that reason was not immediately visible, it was about to become so. John and Mycroft were not having a staring contest for the fun of it; that much was certain. Greg pinched his arm, just in case. _No, not a dream then_, he surmised when it actually hurt.

"Do you mind telling me _what the hell is going on_?" Greg's intention had been to stay perfectly calm and controlled, but his inquiry came out a bit more desperate than he had necessarily envisioned.

John turned to look at the DI with a dark face indeed, "Why don't you ask _him_?"

Greg was, quite honestly, a bit taken aback by John's vehemence and naked hostility. Greg and he were usually comrades, kindred spirits, friends and allies and mates, who could very easily relate to one another. This direct assault made it clear that, whatever Mycroft had done, Greg had been implicated. The DI's mind immediately turned towards the idea that _Oh fucking hell, he __knows_. He shot a quiet, harried, probably panicked glance at Mycroft, who was still surveying John with alacrity and had not shifted his perceptive gaze at all. However, he either had stellar peripheral vision (which Greg knew to be true) or he was able to catch Greg's wild thoughts from across the room (which Greg understood that he could do quite well and without any effort), perhaps both at once. In any event, he gave the tiniest shake of his head and tightened his fingers around his umbrella, which Greg interpreted to mean that John still did not know about Sherlock, but this problem was, in some sense, at the very least, Sherlock related. Greg braced himself for the conflict that was about to explode between the ex-army doctor and the British Government here in the sitting room of 221B with Greg and Sherlock's ghost to bear witness.

Greg surveyed John closely: the bloodshot eyes, the unshaven cheeks, the dark circles from lack of sleep, and the frown lines that were becoming more deeply etched into his face every day. There was a new strain and there was anger, strong, potent, bitter rage, simmering just beneath the surface, ready to detonate and directed almost entirely at Mycroft. Greg was collateral damage. There was something off about the blogger. Greg wasn't sure that John was all _here_. That's when he noticed it. He could have hit himself upside the head for not having observed it the _second_ that he walked into the flat. _Fuck me for a damn fool_, he berated himself. John Watson was sitting in his chair; face a mask of stoicism with eyes shooting unadulterated grief, pain, and resentment. In his hands was a gun.

John's gun. The one that he kept with him for cases, the one that, when it wasn't in use, was safely locked inside the drawer of his desk. The gun, which John knew very well how to aim and shoot. It was not pointed at Mycroft or at Greg. The hairs on the DI's neck rose with the fission that shot straight down his spine and set his already worry-tousled hair on end. _What was John doing with that in the flat?_ _He isn't Sherlock, he's not going to bloody shoot the wall for entertainment and even if he were, I don't see any new decorations in here_. Greg knew exactly why John had his gun in hand, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He wanted to scream, wrest the gun from John's hands, and then maybe be sick. In that order.

"Mycroft," he said instead, slowly, clearly, tentatively, his hands held loosely at his sides and his eyes fixed on John, as if wary of sudden movements. He had adopted, without even realizing it, the voice and posture he used during bank robberies and hostage situations, in which he tried to negotiate the terms of an agreement without any resultant fatalities, "What happened?"

Mycroft didn't move a muscle; he had a very Sherlockian aspect to him in this moment. The elder Holmes, when he was seated, usually gave the great impression of a man at ease, which was a ruse of course, much like a sleeping serpent will lure its prey with the promise of docility. Sherlock was the one that radiated energy in waves so strong you could fairly see it, and you _knew_ that at any moment he would spring suddenly to life (whether to conduct an experiment, pick your pocket, climb across the furniture, throw you out the window, or leap from a rooftop was anyone's guess). The Holmes brothers customarily carried themselves very differently, but right now, Mycroft's whole body was tense and you could see it. If John made a _single_ movement of which Mycroft did not approve, he would respond more quickly than humanly possible to prevent a negative outcome. Greg knew this, and he rather hoped John did as well.

"It would _seem_," the personification of the British Government began, scathing venom dripping from each syllable, further indication that he was both angry and frightened, which did not bode well, at all, "that our _dear_ Dr. Watson, has rather taken a _drastic_ approach to our current _situation_." Mycroft's eyes narrowed significantly, as he evaluated John's current mental state. It was clear to Greg that Mycroft was deciding if tying John up would be wise or incur Sherlock's wrath, and balancing this against the fact that Sherlock would _never_ forgive his brother if John _died_, whether through his fault or his negligence. That was not an acceptable outcome.

"John," Greg demanded, "What does he mean?"

John shot him a condescending look worthy of Sherlock. It was actually a bit frightening, "What do you think he means, Greg?"

"I think he means that you didn't take the gun out to polish it," Greg said and he was grateful that neither his voice nor his hands were shaking, though, to be fair, the latter were just out of John's line of sight, clasped tightly behind the DI's back to prevent just such an eventuality.

John sighed heavily, "Look, Greg, I wasn't going to—"

"Bollocks," Greg interrupted, "You think that I don't know-?"

John glared, "I know that you don't—"

Mycroft stepped in "John, I really don't _understand_ how you could even _consider _the-"

"_Shut up_, Mycroft, it's not your bloody business, or yours," the blogger added for Greg's benefit.

"The _hell_ it isn't, John," Greg returned.

"Get _out_." John said firmly, "Just _get out_."

"I am afraid that that is _not_ an option, John," Mycroft said, leaning forward, while Greg simultaneously shouted, "No _fucking_ way!"

"It's _my_ flat and I want you to _leave_," John wasn't raising his voice at all, but enunciating each word clearly, carefully, and firmly with a biting hatred underlying each syllable.

"I don't fucking care," Greg said.

"I fail to see your _point_," rejoined Mycroft.

"Both of you just get _out_."

"John," Greg entreated ,when confronted with the devastation and frightening resolution on the younger man's face, "I don't know what you take me for, but I am not going to sodding leave this flat and let you _kill_ yourself. Are you _mad_?"

John stared at Greg for a moment, clamping his jaw tightly and blinking several times before turning away. Mycroft inclined his head and looked like he very much wanted to bury his face in his hands, but did not wish to demonstrate any type of weakness presently. Greg still felt quite nauseous, but understood that it was down to him.

"John…mate, look, I know things have been bad…"

John clenched and unclenched his free hand in response. The hand holding the gun stayed mercifully still in his lap for which Greg was thankful. He was also hyper aware of it. John was a good shot, he was also quick, and for all that Greg and Mycroft might do to prevent it, they really couldn't stop him if he set his mind to it. It was making Greg's palms sweat, though his head was clear.

"Really, I do," and he did, truly, he also knew exactly why things remained bad when they didn't have to, that the reason John was even contemplating this was completely unfounded, that he could say one word and have this finished. Then Greg realized, John would not believe him, not for a second. Even if he told the truth, at this point, John would think it was a ploy, a plot, a trick. Though intended to help, it might just as easily tip the balance in the opposite direction. And what if he _did_ believe Greg and put down the gun? They were at Baker Street. If Moriarty's network was still in place (and Mycroft and Sherlock both believed that it was, which was more than good enough for Greg), this was the place that they would be watching, waiting, considering closely. He could tell John the truth, have him put down his gun, and instead of placing his own bullets in his brain, let a sniper do the dirty work for him. Either way, John would be dead. Either way, it would be Greg's fault. No, the truth was not an option. He didn't even need a reminder from Mycroft to secure this in his mind right now. His own brain raced through many scenarios and their potential outcomes, and he was quite certain that revealing the truth about Sherlock was not a viable choice (though he wished it would for John's sake). He wished a lot for John right now because he was quite certain that he understood what John felt. Rather, he understood in the sense that he could not even _begin_ to imagine how he would feel if Mycroft had died in this way. Or if Sherlock had died and there was no Mycroft there for him, if he were completely alone to deal with his grief. He couldn't bear the way that it must crush John to sit here every day in this home that he and Sherlock had made and shared, in this space that held memories thick enough to smother him, real enough to be almost tangible, to have to remember day in and day out that Sherlock was gone and that he wasn't coming back. Living here, John was constantly faced with the fact that this person he'd meant to share his life with was no longer a part of it. Had left him and had taken half his soul with him. John just wanted to put the halves together again, mend what was broken…It hurt Greg's heart. The DI knew that he couldn't fully understand, but he also knew that he couldn't allow John to end it…

"John, he wouldn't want you to do this," Greg was certain, completely, utterly, one hundred thousand percent strong in this conviction. Sherlock would _kill_ Greg after a long period of torture if he ever knew about this. He would go completely mad.

John turned his face to Greg and bored into his eyes, "It doesn't _matter_, that selfish bastard doesn't get a say in this."

"John," Greg implored, he was rather sure that his heart was breaking. Sherlock had been selfish, but not for the reasons that John believed. The irony and the injustice of this moment were unbearable, "John, I _can't_ let you _kill_ yourself."

"Why the _hell_ not?" John asked, completely serious and more than a little desperate, "Just let me _go_."

"John," Mycroft said from where he perched in Sherlock's chair, fingers steepled and pressed against his mouth in a very familiar gesture, a haunting one, "You _know_ that we simply _cannot_ allow that."

"Sherlock wouldn't want—" Greg tried again, but John interrupted quickly and vehemently.

"_Damn_ Sherlock and _damn_ what the bloody hell he would've wanted!" He shouted. Greg was startled. Tears were flowing down John's cheeks, but the blogger was not aware of them. He seemed possessed by something sharp, and hateful, and biting that was trying to claw its way out of him, "Sherlock didn't give a _damn_ about what _I_ wanted," he hit his free hand against his breastbone, over his heart, where the hurt was, "he _didn't _listen to me. He didn't _give a fucking damn_. I _asked_ him to come down. I _told_ him to stop. He made me _watch_. He didn't, he just, he—"

Now Greg really did feel like he was going to be sick. John couldn't seem to hold back the ragged breaths that were shaking his body and he buried his face in his free hand. Greg walked over, knelt down beside him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and gripped tightly, riding it out with John, waiting it out with him.

"John," he said quietly, "it isn't your fault."

There was no response. John still had his face covered, taking deep breaths now, trying to compose himself. Greg left his hand on John's shoulder and glanced over to Mycroft, who had turned away. Greg rather suspected that the elder Holmes may have succumbed to his emotions as well. _Well that's been a long time coming_, Greg thought, somewhat relieved on that score.

"Killing yourself isn't going to fix it," he added.

John raised his head and contemplated this, clearing his throat, "It would make it _stop_, Greg…I—I, I just want it to _stop_."

Greg honestly didn't know what to say, but Mycroft apparently did. The elder Holmes rose to his feet, wiped his eyes, and turned to face John brusquely.

"I never took you for a _coward_, John Watson, quite the _contrary_, in fact. You are _brave_ to a fault. Not least, because you were able to live with my _brother_ for a _significant_ period of time," he contemplated John with red-rimmed eyes and bright pink nostrils, "Now, my _brother_ has _never_ been one to suffer fools, as I am _sure_ you know, and, whatever _else_ his faults may have been, and we _all_ _know _that they were _many_, John…he _cared_ for you _very_ deeply. More than any other human being that I have _seen_. _Killing_ yourself would be a _foolish_ decision and it would do _nothing_ to bring him back. Do not do disservice to his memory by telling me that he was _incorrect_ in his deductions of the person about whom he cared the _most_ in this world."

John stared at Mycroft and Mycroft stared back. There was a ringing silence in which Greg watched the two of them carefully. There was a battle of wills happening and an important one at that, with lives hanging in the balance. John didn't much like Mycroft presently, but something that the elder Holmes said had struck a chord with him and seemed to outweigh the resentment, enough to take him seriously. Perhaps it was just the invocation of Sherlock, the summoning of his memory or spirit, and the resurgence of memories, fond ones that were making John rethink this, picturing Sherlock's face, disappointed in having misjudged his blogger, his only friend, the only one on the earth who knew that he was not a fake, that believed in him unconditionally, and loved him too. He couldn't leave that post. Finally, agonizingly, John nodded sharply. Greg sighed with palpable relief, and Mycroft nodded his approval, a truce of sorts was drawn between Sherlock's brother and his friend, a new bargain struck between them.

"John, give me the gun," Greg coaxed, and John released his fingers suddenly remembering that Greg was there, "there's a good lad."

John leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes tightly. Mycroft nodded at Greg.

"You're not getting this back any time soon, just so you know," the DI counseled John, who nodded.

"Expected as much."

"Good, just as long as we're clear," Greg said, tucking it into the back of his belt.

"Gregory, why don't you make us some _tea_? I believe we could all _use_ some," Mycroft directed, "John, I _believe_ that the time has come for us to discuss an _upgrade_ in your security apparatus. Gregory, when you've finished the tea, I would be most _gratified_ if you would make John an emergency therapy appointment."

Mycroft continued listing things that needed doing, ignoring the sharp stinging of his own eyes, which Greg longed to address when they got home. John just let the orders and directives flow over him, as he floated along in their wake. Greg personally hoped that this hurdle was the last they'd have to cross. He didn't know that he could take much more.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Yikes! I am not sure how I feel about this chapter. Honestly. I've had this scene in my head for a long time, but I'm not sure it came out on the page the way that I wanted. Anyway, I'd really love to hear what you think, so…what did you think?_

_Thanks so much for reading and reviewing and favoriting and following. You are all wonderful and genuinely make my day. _

_The next chapter will be up by Sunday at the latest. _

_Much love_


	12. Unified Front

"He's going to bloody murder us when he finds out."

"He will _thank_ us, Gregory."

The DI raised his brows, "You _really_ think so?"

Mycroft considered this for a long moment, "_Eventually_," he amended seriously. "When he has had to chance to significantly _recover_ from the shock and has dispelled any _mistaken_ anger, he will see reason and, I am _sure_, choose to _mercifully_ spare our lives."

"Provided he decides to spare his own," Greg added dubiously. It had been a long and difficult afternoon and evening.

Mycroft surveyed Greg contemplatively, "You doubt John's _sincerity_."

"Oh, no," Greg sighed, "I trust John's sincerity. I'm just not sure which bit was the sincere one." Many compromises had been reached, many promises made, in the course of the past few hours, but Greg couldn't overlook the fact that this whole conversation had begun with John holding a gun in his hand and contemplating ending his own life. _Makes you start to think that a bloke is a bit desperate. Desperate people make promises they don't intend to keep all the time…_

Mycroft, sensing the direction of Greg's thoughts, reached out and took his hand, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him. Greg let out the breath he'd been holding but couldn't quite manage to relax his clenching facial muscles. Worried frowns were quickly becoming their favorite default setting. It rather gave the DI a headache.

"If you are _worried_ about the threat John poses to your _person_, Gregory," Mycroft smoothed his hand across Greg's furrowed forehead, "you needn't be. For two reasons. _One_, because I would _never_ allow you to be harmed. _Two_, because John will most likely direct the _larger_ part of his hostility for our present situation at Sherlock or myself."

Greg groaned, "Well, won't that be lovely…" He imagined the consulting detective and the blogger in their weary, worn, and utterly shattered states arguing. It wasn't quite the reunion that he would wish for them, but, unfortunately, it was more likely than not. _Just one more thing to worry about_, he thought wearily, _and that's even supposing that Sherlock comes back in one piece, which isn't guaranteed, not even close. And let's say that he does survive and John won't take him back? Jesus, that'll just be a whole new set of horrible that I can't even—_

"_Gregory_," Mycroft said quite firmly with an underlying note of tenderness and sympathy, "Do _try_ to stop thinking such dreadfully _catastrophic _thoughts. They are most _depressing_ and worrisome. This is the first _peaceable_ moment we've had in quite some time. I suggest that we try to _enjoy_ it as much as possible." Mycroft's tone was wistful as well as admonishing. He was right, too. Reclining together on the sofa had not happened in quite some time and there was a certain nostalgic comfort about this pose. They could both, for a moment, choose to ignore their situation and just relax.

Nevertheless, Greg found it a bit troubling that sitting on suicide watch for John Watson was considered "peaceable and relaxing." _What does that tell you about what life has been like for the two of us recently? _Greg wasn't able to rest, not really. He hadn't been able to for quite some time. The circumstances that had been produced today did nothing to ameliorate the knots into which his stomach had been tied for months now. He wondered vaguely if he would eventually reach a plateau in which he had dealt with so much upset, fear, anxiety, and stress that he would just stop feeling altogether. He had never hit such a point in the past ten or so years with Mycroft and Sherlock in his life. This led him to believe that there wasn't necessarily an emotional off switch. However, if anything would bring him to that point, he was damn certain that it was their current predicament.

Perhaps Mycroft was right. There was nothing more that they could do for John or Sherlock at present. Maybe it was time to just rest here. It was nice, lying back against Mycroft's chest, feeling his arms wrapped around him and the other man's chin sitting atop his head. It had been far too long since they had last been together like this, wrapped up in and around one another. It felt right. It felt like home. For Greg, it somehow made the burden less because he knew that, however much he was fretting and obsessing over the boys, Mycroft was agonizing just as much, if not more, than he himself was. They were sharing this with one another and, somehow, this made carrying the burden a bit easier…at least for the moment.

Greg closed his eyes and held Mycroft's hand in his own as the other man turned his cheek and nuzzled Greg's hair softly. He hoped that Mycroft would find sleep tonight. Neither of them had really gotten more than a few winks lately. Granted, Mycroft, like Sherlock, didn't require much sleep. Apparently, it was a Holmes family characteristic. However, unlike his younger brother, Mycroft actually _liked_ to sleep, though he often said that he found it a nearly impossible exercise. His mind was constantly occupied, going in thousands of directions at once, turning any one of them off was difficult indeed, let alone all of them. But he could sleep with Greg, when they lay together, when they touched each other, Greg's presence was soothing. Sometimes, Greg would watch Mycroft sleep and marvel at the fact that his features were able to relax so much in repose, how much younger he looked, and how unburdened he seemed. The DI had also woken many nights, to find Mycroft, who required less sleep than most, and who worked odd hours at best, lying next to him and watching. The first time this had happened, Greg found it a bit startling, creepy even; it was exposing to be under such an intent gaze. Now he found it endearing and tender, and Greg would take the man into his arms and they would find sleep together.

Tonight, Greg hoped Mycroft knew that he would keep watch (Mycroft was hoping the same thing about Greg). The DI listened for any sign of movement or indication of activity from down the hall, reflecting on the day.

After wresting the gun from John, Mycroft and Greg had a very serious conversation in the kitchen about what to do next.

"Do you think we should leave him here?" Greg had asked. He was startled to hear the ragged tone of his own voice, incredibly world weary and exhausted.

"I find that suggestion _highly_ questionable, given John's current level of _instability_," Mycroft replied, tones clipped, nerves frayed.

"Well we can't take him _home_ can we?" Greg asserted with the emphasis to indicate he was thinking of what the hell would happen to all their bloody carefully laid plans if Sherlock showed up when John was staying with them. _It might actually __solve__ this damn problem…desperate times and all that…_"But we can't just bloody leave him _alone_."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and twirled his umbrella. _Deep in thought then_, Greg surmised, as he waited for the brilliant plan to emerge from his partner's considerable brain power.

"He shall have to stay with us until tomorrow at least. I do not _believe_ that we have another option, Gregory," he added when Greg looked ready to explode with frustration, "We simply _cannot_ leave him here unobserved."

Greg scoffed, and Mycroft sighed, "_Fine_, we cannot leave him _observed_ but without the _necessary_ responders, not when he is in such a _volatile_ state. It will take approximately" he consulted his pocket watch fixedly, "twenty-four hours to establish such a _system_."

"I don't know if this is a good idea," Greg was all for keeping John close by, but putting him in the potential trajectory of Sherlock seemed exceptionally risky, especially for Mycroft, "We could just kip here, I mean, it won't make a—"

"Absolutely _not_," Mycroft interjected firmly, "given what we have discussed regarding John's _alternative_ surveillance, I find the idea of you spending _any_ prolonged period of time in this locality, _highly_ unsatisfactory." Greg knew that Mycroft was referring to the snipers and Moriarty's network and that what he was really saying was "you will kip on 221B's sofa over my dead body." Greg would have found it much more charming if he weren't trying so desperately to find a way to make this work.

"He won't even agree," Greg asserted gloomily, "you can't get him out of here for love or money and quite frankly—"

Mycroft stood to his full height, a direct challenge to any form of, as yet theoretical, resistance from 221B's only resident, "John _will_ come if I have to drug his coffee and drag him out of here _myself_." Greg's brows rose so high that they fairly disappeared. _He must mean business if he's even __suggesting__ getting his hands dirty __or__ mimicking Sherlock's methods_. Greg raised his own hands, palms open, in a gesture of surrender, but a third voice chimed in before he could continue.

"Ah, you do know that I can hear you both, yeah?" John stood in the doorway, arms crossed protectively across his chest, eyes deadened. _Well at least he moved off the sofa,_ Greg considered trying to dwell on the positives, wherever and whenever he could find them.

"Of _course_," Mycroft affirmed, whilst Greg looked guilty, "we _were_, as you are _undoubtedly_ aware, discussing your lodging situation for this evening."

"Yeah, I got that, thanks," John said caustically. Greg didn't like the tone much. Though he was happy to see John standing his ground, he disliked the fact that the blogger seemed sullen and resentful. _He was going to kill himself not an hour ago, Greg_, he chastised, _did you expect him to walk in all sunshine and daisies?_

"Quite," Mycroft continued, "_We_," Greg noted the emphasis on the plural and sent an admonishing diatribe to Mycroft in his head, hoping that his partner picked up on it loud and clear. If he did, he chose to ignore it in favor of presenting a unified front to the troubled blogger, "rather _believe_ that it would be _best_ for you to stay with us this evening. We can make the guest room up for you fairly _quickly_. I am quite _certain_ that you will find the accommodations _most_ comfortable."

John looked extremely dubious. His face closed like a locked door. Mycroft was standing primly and impassively smiling, a white knuckled hold on his umbrella the only indication of his underlying tension. Greg wondered if John had noticed or deduced what that meant. _He's picked up some of Sherlock's tricks that's for certain_. The elder Holmes was quite certainly not going to take no for an answer, although both he and Greg knew that John could prove exceptionally obstinate. The DI honestly doubted very much that anywhere was particularly comfortable for John right now. He was stubborn and despondent, and, despite the fact that he once again seemed steady, was undoubtedly embodying some Sherlockian instability right beneath the surface.

"You're gonna come home with us," Greg said firmly, "we've decided." He invoked the plural as well. He believed that presenting a unified front in the face of opposition might be best, and there was no harm in overtly declaring his loyalties in this moment. John needed to be watched, and, until they could set up something else, Greg wouldn't trust anyone else with the job.

Greg's eyes scanned the kitchen, noticing all the sharp cutlery, the knives, the scalpels, and that was nothing compared to the chemicals and medicines in the cupboards. He was wondering how long it would take to strip 221B of anything dangerous. He pondered the hidey holes that Sherlock had, the ones that John kept, the fact that the good doctor had a prescription pad and access to St. Bart's and the Yard, that it wouldn't matter how much Greg hid or removed, John could replace it. Savvy as he was, dogged as he was, and determined as he was, he would find a way if his mind was set on something. Greg was sure that Mycroft had already considered this carefully. Greg contemplated something else.

"You're coming with us," he affirmed.

John nodded tightly.

"Before that, we're gonna lay out some rules," John squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. Greg was reminded of a similar conversation that he had had many years earlier and swallowed the lump in his throat purposefully, shying away from the circumstances that had led him there and here and focusing on the task at hand. He placed his hands firmly in his pockets, and Mycroft, sensing the direction of the conversation, inclined his head towards Greg and stepped closer for support.

"_Indeed_. I believe that that shall be _necessary_," the head of the British Government confirmed authoritatively.

"You want me to swear not to do it," John deduced, resigned and suspicious all at once.

Mycroft was pleased that he had cottoned on so quickly. Greg was unsure exactly how to proceed. He chose the most straight forward route, "Yeah, that about covers it."

There was a long pause in which no one spoke.

"John?"

"I swear, all right?"

The three men all considered one another. Mycroft and Greg shared a very meaningful glance, full of unspoken conversation: _Do we trust him? __We regrettably have no choice__. I vote we get rid of anything dangerous. __I will put a tracking device on John if necessary_.

"What?" John asked somewhat caustically, "Do you want me to sign something in blood."

Mycroft laughed rather coldly. It made Greg slightly uneasy. He rather got the feeling that if Mycroft thought extracting such a promise would work, he would produce the necessary contract and tools for blood extraction in a second.

"I want you to give your word," the DI asserted, "and I want you to keep it," he paused before adding, "This is important, John"

"_You _are important, Dr. Watson," Mycroft emphasized.

John looked between them, processing, evaluating. There was a trace of longing somewhere beneath the exhaustion, grief, and pain on his face. Perhaps, it was for the way that Mycroft and Greg were presenting a unified front. They were partners, they loved and cared for one another, and, when it came to something of this degree of importance, they were most clearly going to support one another. John missed that. He missed having his other half. Missed it so terribly that it hurt all the time. Ached and echoed in the hollow of his chest. It was the reason he'd been holding a gun earlier in the evening.

"John?" Greg prompted.

John nodded tightly, once more, tension evident in every muscle. He clenched his fists and assumed his soldier pose, rigid, upright, and intoned emotionlessly, "I swear that I will not off myself. Better?"

Greg held out his hand and John, after the barest moment of hesitation, shook it, firmly gripping back before letting go.

"I'll, ah, just, ah, go and pack some things then, shall I?" and he turned on his heel and left.

He brought a small bag with him to Mycroft and Greg's flat. Just the essentials for a night: tooth brush, jumper, pajamas, laptop, and something that Greg recognized as Sherlock's scarf, which John quickly covered when he saw Greg looking. The DI wouldn't have said anything, though Mycroft looked quite taken aback. They helped to settle him into the guest room, which was truly quite comfortable. John sat down at the desk and opened his laptop, staring at a blank screen, and Greg wondered if it was a metaphor for how the blogger felt or wished he could feel. Empty, blank, a clean slate, devoid of hurt or pain or emotion. John sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Do you need anything?" Greg asked.

"No, I'm all right," John answered dully. _You're about as far from all right as anyone I've ever seen in my life. And that is bloody saying something_, Greg thought but didn't say aloud.

"We'll scrounge up some dinner in a bit if you're hungry."

John nodded, still watching the screen as if waiting for words to appear, answers and stories and solutions and the adventures he had never had, a letter Sherlock had never sent, something, anything to explain or mitigate these feelings.

"Look, John, it's just for a bit…" he tried.

"I get it, Greg, I'd do the same thing if the situation were reversed."

Suddenly, Greg felt a fresh wave of guilt. If the situation were different, would John have revealed the truth long ago? Would this whole thing have been avoided if he had told John in the first place? Would things be better now? Greg didn't know, but he honestly hoped that John would not mention Sherlock because he might give in after all of this.

Greg cleared his throat instead of giving voice to his thoughts. "Well, if you need us, we'll be in the sitting room, all right?"

John gave a mirthless laugh, devoid of any type of happiness, "Suicide watch?"

Greg's mouth was a grim line, "Something like that."

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Hello everyone. Welcome to Chapter 12. Wow, have we come this far already? What did you think of this? Please, leave a review and share your thoughts. _

_The beginning of this week is a bit hectic for me, but look for an update by Wednesday at the very latest. Until then, thank you so much for reading and reviewing and generally being fantastic. _


	13. Interlude

John stayed for a week, primarily because that was how long it took before Mycroft was satisfied with the newly implemented security arrangements at Baker Street. Under other circumstances, Greg would have rolled his eyes with feigned exasperation at Mycroft's excessive fastidiousness, forcibly removed the mobile from his partner's clutching fingers, and eventually shouted, "It's bleeding fine, just _leave_ it. Blimey." However, under these conditions, he tended to agree with Mycroft's hard line on the issue. John's security, especially in the wake of recent events was, and continued to be, a top priority, particularly since neither Greg nor Mycroft could do anything to help ensure Sherlock's well-being. They rather reallocated, knowingly or not, the attention that would be spent on Sherlock to John. If it was impossible to help and watch out for them both, they would focus on the one that they could.

"We are _not_ going to take _any_ chances in this situation, Gregory," Mycroft had said. Greg agreed in principle, but the truth was that he spent the entire week that John stayed with them on tenterhooks. The DI was paranoid that Sherlock would appear dramatically in the kitchen one morning and ruin everything that they had worked so hard to contain. Not to mention, scare the living hell out of John. That was not the way that things ought to happen in an ideal scenario. _Well, in an ideal fucking scenario, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place_. Since a utopian alternate reality was not an option, Greg dealt with his paranoia by following John around the flat and forcibly preceding him whenever he entered rooms (to make sure that they were completely Sherlock free, though, to be honest, Greg had no notion what he would do if he walked into a room a second before John to discover an erstwhile consulting detective inhabiting the space). It was lucky that John was still a bit out of it. He didn't particularly notice or care about Greg's exceedingly strange behavior, and, if he did, he undoubtedly attributed it to the DI's grief and mental breakdown.

Besides that, the week passed somewhat normally. John spent the majority of time in the guest room. Doing what exactly? Greg was unsure. The ex-army doctor did seem to be a bit better whenever he emerged; if still extremely quiet, he showed some subtle signs of progress. He voluntarily made toast one morning and took some tea. Greg was frankly astonished: this was the first time he'd seen John eat without an intense negotiation or inducement. Greg had smirked at his coffee and refrained from saying a word. It wouldn't do to draw too much attention to it, but from that point on, he made sure that the cupboards and fridge were stocked with foods that he knew John liked as a way to encourage this behavior.

John still didn't seem particularly inclined to spend time with Mycroft, but neither did he eschew his company. It was more like whenever he shared space or exchanges with the elder Holmes, he sighed hugely and endured it. John was speaking again after a few days. Idle conversation about the weather or something he'd seen on the telly or read on the blogosphere. Greg thought it was a good sign, though he made sure to keep a sharp eye on John in case this was a ruse. Sherlock's attempts to feign innocence and harmlessness often fell flat with Greg. He could see right through them. It was a skill that he had acquired over the years. John, on the other hand, John could quite believably seem unassuming and out of danger when in fact he wasn't.

Mycroft was even more suspicious of the blogger than Greg was, but he still seemed encouraged by John's behavior. Watchful, certainly. Concerned, definitely. Wary, or course. He wouldn't be _Mycroft_ if he wasn't those things. Yet, even so, either through a sixth sense or intensely perceptive deductions, he seemed to believe that John was no longer a danger to himself.

"John Watson abides by a code of _loyalty_ and _honor_," he had affirmed when Greg voiced his doubts, "_You_ invoked that facet of his personality, most _perceptively_, I might add, Gregory, when you forced him to swear against _further _physical self-harm. As to _emotional_ and _psychological_ self-flagellation, well, that is a separate matter _entirely_."

Greg wasn't sure if he detected a hint of surprise, but it sounded like a genuine compliment, and his expression settled somewhere between a smirk and a frown. He hoped that Mycroft was right about John's inclination towards suicide and wished that he was wrong about the blogger's internal trauma.

"John will not wish to betray your _trust_ or his _word_," he added, "It is his _soldier_ complex. Sherlock is _ever _so fond of that _particular_ facet of his personality," Mycroft paused, as if considering why his younger brother would find such attributes compelling. Greg rolled his eyes, knowing that Mycroft was overlooking his own tastes. The elder Holmes continued, "_Fortunately_, in this _instance_, it works in _our_ favor."

"So you think he'll be all right?" Greg questioned.

Mycroft raised his brows, "Oh, I think that he is _far_ from 'all right.' In point of fact, I _believe _that he resents us both deeply. _However_, we needn't worry about him committing suicide at _present_."

Greg nodded, but he noticed that Mycroft continued to watch John quite intently and John noticed as well.

One day, during the week that John stayed, Greg came home to a quiet flat. He had left work a bit earlier than usual, and was looking forward to changing out of his suit. However, as he walked down the corridor towards his bedroom, his heart fairly stopped. One of the doors was opened, one which they kept closed constantly: the entrance to Sherlock's room. When Greg's heart did start up again, he walked purposefully towards the door and whatever awaited him inside. Since Sherlock had returned from the dead, his room was closed off, shut and locked unless he was here. It was a signal of sorts to find the door ajar. It meant that he was home. Greg's mind was racing. Had Sherlock returned? Had he seen John? Had John seen him? Had he been able to deduce why John was here? Greg couldn't even imagine the fallout from that, or rather, he could, which was why he was so uneasy when he pushed the door the rest of the way open...

Sherlock wasn't inside. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. The room was empty of the world's only consulting detective. But, in the midst of Sherlock's knickknacks, case books, experiments, diagrams, clutter, and mess, was John Watson. Just sitting. _Oh, fucking hell_, Greg thought.

The blogger wasn't crying. There were no tears on his face, which was impassive and even a bit contemplative. He was perched on Sherlock's bed, holding one of his casebooks, quite old by the looks of it, and staring at it fixedly.

Greg felt like he had intruded on a private moment and he made back away, but John spoke before he could sneak out.

"Didn't know that he kept all this stuff here," he said, not looking up from the book, which lay open on his lap.

"Yeah," Greg returned, folding his arms and leaning against the doorjamb, unsure if John wanted him to cross the threshold, "We kept a room for him when we moved in here, just in case he needed to, um, a place to stay, I suppose. Didn't know that he'd make such a mess of it," Greg glanced around, taking in the space that was so indelibly Sherlock's, which Greg and Mycroft kept locked, on some level at least, to preserve the character and essence of the place. It was an insurance policy of sorts, something neither of them wanted to lose, regardless of Sherlock's ability to come back again. He pulled himself away from the nostalgic and somewhat maudlin direction of his thoughts, and smirked conspiratorially at the blogger, "Though, now I think on it, I'm not surprised."

John laughed shortly, "I don't think he was capable of _not_ making a mess. Blimey, have you seen our sitting room?"

Greg chuckled too. He had seen the sitting room at 221B, which John had not changed one whit since Sherlock's death. The DI stepped inside, standing near the desk, across from John, who had finally looked up.

"This," he held up the book he was holding, old and worn, black leather cover, ink stains on the edges of the pages, and a familiar scrawl that Greg could identify even from across the room, "is from 1989."

Greg nodded, waiting for John to reveal the significance of that date. Greg was good at waiting for the dramatic revelation of the importance that lay behind a seemingly insignificant fact. It was something Sherlock had done, and still did, with regularity; something which John had, apparently, adopted for his own to some degree.

"It's a notebook," the blogger continued a small, sad smile forming at the corners of his mouth, "Sherlock's observations from the fall of that year," he paused, licking his lips and clearing his throat, "Did you know that he'd been doing this for that long?"

Greg sighed, "I knew he'd been at it for a while. You don't get to be the way that he is, _was_," he amended and he saw John's jaw clench in response to the past tense. He felt a horrible twist of guilt in his abdomen, which he quickly tamped down in favor of continuing, "without a good deal of practice, I imagine…by the time I knew him, he was already beyond brilliant with deductions, could tell my whole bloody life story with one look," he smiled reflectively.

John seemed saddened, perhaps because this was a reference to those moments with Sherlock that he would never have and couldn't even ask about now. _You'll be able to one day, John_, Greg thought, wishing he had a way to communicate this and lessen the pain that John was experiencing.

"It must've been…ah," the blogger paused, searching for the right word, "_difficult_, the way they grew up."

Greg sighed; face darkening, "From what I understand, it wasn't easy. Did you never speak of it?"

John shook his head ruefully, line appearing between his brows, "No, he never…" the blogger trailed off and cleared his throat again, tapping the casebook meaningfully against his thigh, and decidedly redirecting the conversation, "It's—ah—interesting reading…He was rather fond of Mycroft."

It wasn't a question, but there was an inquiry there as well. John's puzzled face was mildly amusing. Greg half laughed and half sighed, "They were quite fond of each _other_ when they were kids," he said tentatively, "They still are—_were_—in their own way, I suppose," he paused, considering what he ought to reveal and what he even could, "It's not really my story to tell, John, I only know parts, right? You should talk to Mycroft if you're curious."

John nodded tightly, "Yeah, maybe," he glanced at the pile of books on the table and the chronologically arranged ones in the case by the door. "There are a lot of these in here," he said and Greg nodded, "mind if I take some with me?"

"Course not," Greg said, "Take anything you like." He would figure out a way to explain the absence of these things to Sherlock when the time came. John was the priority at present. He could come up with an excuse for Sherlock, one that did not involve mentioning the factors that brought John to the flat.

John rose to his feet and looked about the room, "It's strange…"

"What?"

"It's—ah—it's like he's still here, you know?" John shook his head sadly. He touched the headboard gently with his fingertips, a strangely intimate gesture, and murmured, "bloody bastard," Greg wasn't sure if his tone was resentful, affectionate, or just plain sad.

"Yeah," the DI agreed, "I know."

John left three days later. 221B had been reinforced with significant security measures; enough to satisfy even Mycroft's exacting tastes and concern.

"You gonna be all right, John?" Greg asked when they pulled up to Baker Street.

John grabbed his bag and stepped out of the car, "I'll be _fine_, Greg," he assured the older man before adding gruffly, "and ah-thanks."

"No problem, John," he replied, "if you need _anything_, really, anything, you'll let us know, all right?"

John nodded. He had heard this speech before, multiple times now.

"Oh, and Mycroft wanted me to remind you that you've got an session with your therapist at—"

"Noon, yeah, I know," John said, "I'm not a child. I can keep an appointment."

"I'll stop by later tonight. Pick up some curry, yeah?"

"Right. See you, then," John said.

"Take care," Greg added and he watched the blogger enter the flat that he now occupied alone, hoping that the worst of the danger had passed for him.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to chapter 13. What did you think? Believe it or not we are nearing the end of this tale (we've passed the midway point at least). To that end, I have a question for you, my dear readers: would you prefer a fluffy interlude before the next chapter of No Words? Please, let me know how you feel about that and how you liked this chapter._

_Much love. _


	14. Diffusion

Greg came home two days after John moved back into Baker to Street to hear a door slam accompanied by raised voices.

_Ah,_ _Sherlock must be home_, he reflected. If not for the shouting, he would have been quite glad at the prospect. It was always lovely (and extremely relieving) to have confirmation that Sherlock was still alive. It usually allowed Greg to breathe freely for at least a day or two.

Instead, he began to mentally prepare himself for the impending domestic battle. _My hasn't sounded that completely miffed since before Sherlock came back_. In fact, the incensed tones that echoed down the corridor, as Greg removed his coat and loosened his tie, hadn't reached this volume in at least a year. Greg thought the quietude had been a gesture of gratitude for Sherlock's continued existence in an increasingly shaky world. The fact that Greg could hear this argument from the sitting room was a bad sign indeed.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade could essentially write an anthropological study about the Holmeses at this point. He was an expert, in many ways, on their habits and peculiarities. This is why he knew that the Holmeses had a tendency to _lower_ their voices during verbal sparring matches, like incensed geese hissing at one another. Increased volume was never ever good. It indicated a crisis situation and a level of hostility that was extreme even for the two brothers.

Greg, therefore, being a wise and pragmatic soul, approached Mycroft's study with the utmost caution: the type of careful consideration and delicacy he would use to defuse a bomb. Greg had, in the course of his relationship with Mycroft and Sherlock, neutralized more sibling conflicts than he could count. He had played referee so frequently that it was extraordinary that he had never received permanent damage in the crossfire of their attacks. As the family arbiter of justice, Greg was an expert at avoiding injury, mostly because he could read the situation well (by this point at least. Originally, trying to get Sherlock and Mycroft to stop attacking one another left Greg at a sincere loss, and there had been some near misses). The key, he had learned, was to pick your moment: do not, under any circumstances, make any sudden moves, lest all the attention (biting, snide, condescending, resentful, cold, burning) be directed at _you_. One should always be wary of startling a Holmes (let alone two) in the middle of an intense "debate." This is why Greg took his time as he walked towards the source of the commotion. From his place in the corridor, he could begin to discern the nature of the conflict, gathering information in preparation of his entrance. So far, it did not sound good.

"You are being _exceptionally _foolish! Even for _you_!"

"_You _are the foolish one, Mycroft," Sherlock spat venomously, "_I_ am completely rational."

"_Ration_—?" Mycroft sputtered angrily, and Greg winced sharply from his place just outside the door. If Mycroft as at a loss for words, clearly the situation had devolved well past the point of recuperation, "_Rational?_ For pity's _sake_, Sherlock, just _look_ at yourself! Do you call _this_," there was a pause for some sort of emphasis, "_rational_?"

Sherlock responded with surly obstinacy, "I fail to see your point!"

"You _cannot_ possibly be _serious_!"

"Oh, I assure you, I am entirely serious."

"Well then you have _completely_ forsaken all _logic_ in your infernal and, I might add, _idiotic_, quest for vengeance—"

"It is not about revenge—"

"Just another indication that you _cannot_ be objective, at all, in fact, I believe that the time has _come_ to—"

"To _what_ exactly!"

Sherlock's last comment had been delivered with such invective and challenge that Greg could fairly _hear_ Mycroft bristling with apoplectic rage from where he stood on the threshold. _I think that's my cue_, the DI decided. He took a very deep breath before entering his partner's study, which was currently serving as the arena for the most recent Holmesian Battle Royale. Greg ruefully wondered, as he always did, if he should have sold tickets or if he could buy some sort of protective armor in anticipation of what he was about to get involved in.

However, once he stepped into the room, his train of thought switched tracks rapidly from "How do we all get out of this one alive?" to "Where the bloody hell is Sherlock?" Mycroft was standing in the center of his study with a glare on his face that could kill mere mortals with ease and, undoubtedly, pleasure. This was why Greg was completely confused by the fact the man sitting in front of the irate personification of the British Government had not yet dropped dead from fatal injuries. The young man on the sofa with a hateful expression on his face, at first glance, appeared about as far from Sherlock as possible. He was dressed as bicycle courier. Helmet still on his head, trainers on his feet, bicycle pants, tight cycling shirt, with a jacket, fingerless gloves, a scrape across one forearm, shadows on his face. It took Greg about two minutes of careful examination of the room (to make sure that there was no one else here) to confirm that the bicyclist _was_, in fact, Sherlock. _Well that's a bloody thorough disguise_. Greg would have whistled to express the level to which he was impressed except he realized that that might be dangerous given the present climate.

"Hello, boys," he said instead, as casually as possible, "good to see you two getting along."

"Ah, Gregory," Mycroft said, without turning in greeting, and somehow unable to repress the flaring of his nostrils or intense downward turn of his mouth, "thank _goodness_ you have arrived. Perhaps _you_ will be able to talk some _sense_ into this _complete_," Greg once again marveled at the fact that Mycroft was angry beyond his ability to verbally express his hostility. His partner gestured emphatically as his frown deepened, his eyes shot sparks, and he frantically searched for the proper term to describe was an arrogant and idiotic twat his brother was being. Mycroft, being Mycroft, twat was not a viable option. "_Neanderthal_," he concluded.

Sherlock actually _snarled_; his lips curled in a sneer. Greg's eyes widened. _Over ten years and I've never seen them quite this bad_.

Greg cut in before Sherlock could launch into whatever diatribe he had prepared, "Can one of you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"With _pleasure_," Sherlock began, unfastening his helmet and tossing it on the sofa with a flourish. The misplaced anger made Greg wonder what the poor inanimate object had ever done to incur such harsh treatment. Mycroft, however, was absolutely, under no inducement, going to let Sherlock have the first or last word. In fact, it would be lucky, to judge by his incendiary expression, if Sherlock were allowed any words in between either. Greg was actually alarmed at this point and felt a strong urge to caution Mycroft to watch _his _blood pressure. Clearly, present circumstances had reached an untenable point because Mycroft was not able to reign in his upset, and Greg was sensing some sort of panic along with the anger in his partner's stance, face, and voice. _This is not bloody good_.

"Your…_boy_," he spat, pointing emphatically and accusatorily at Sherlock, "has taken _complete_ leave of his senses!"

"I have _not_!"

"Shut up, this _moment_!" Mycroft hissed, "He has no concern for his own safety, nor John's, nor yours. In fact, I _highly_ suggest that he _not_ be permitted to leave this location for the remainder of the _year_ at the very _least_—"

"Have you completely lost your _mind_, Mycroft? Just because you are so _dense_ that you can't see—"

"_I _can't see? _I_ can't _see_?" Mycroft's voice was actually bordering on the hysterical, as he drew himself to his full height and gave his brother such a hostile stare that Greg was quite certain that someone, somewhere in the world had just dropped dead as a result of it.

"Do you have even the _slightest_ notion what your current _escapades _are putting us through? What you are doing to _yourself_? Have you any conception _at all_! You selfish, foolish, willful _child_!"

"Better than an arrogant, pompous, ignorant fool, who can't even begin to comprehend the importance of—"

Mycroft laughed cruelly. Sherlock stood up with eyes like ice. Greg had heard quite enough and was compelled to actually move as quickly as possible (eschewing all his previous self-directed advice about making sudden movements and avoiding becoming the focus of their attention at all costs).

"All right!" Greg shouted, "That's enough," He glared at both of them with his sternest and most rational expression. Placing his hand on Sherlock's chest, he gently (but firmly) shoved him backwards, "You sit down," he directed, adding a stern, "Now," when the younger man resisted. Sherlock crinkled his nose in complete disdain, but sat as directed, crossing his arms.

That settled, Greg turned to Mycroft, "You as well." Mycroft's mouth opened slightly, surprised, but he quickly followed his directives, sitting in the winged armchair with grace, crossing his legs with flair, and inspecting his nails, as if he could care less about what was going to transpire. Greg stood between the two of them and sent a silent plea for patience and strength to whatever deity might be listening.

"Now," he said calmly, "would one of you like to explain to me what the hell is going on? And, if you could use indoor voices, that would be bloody marvelous," he crossed his arms and waited.

No response was forthcoming, however. It appeared that the boys had gone directly from a shouting match to stony silence and elected to completely eschew rational conversation. _Why is it always me? _The DI thought, rolling his eyes in exasperation and impatience.

"All right, let's try another one, shall we?" It was moments like this, however rare or frequent they might be, that Greg was grateful that part of his job description involved interrogation techniques. _Talk about bringing work skills to bear on your personal life_. Although, in Greg's case, the overlap between the two was frequent and blurry. "Sherlock, why are you dressed like that?"

The consulting detective glared at Greg and refused to answer. Mycroft cleared his throat and Greg turned towards his partner for explication.

"Sherlock is dressed in this _ridiculous_ manner because he spent the morning _spying _on John Watson," for someone who dealt in secrets, lies, clandestine facilities, espionage, and generally knowing things that he oughtn't, Mycroft sounded extremely judgmental of Sherlock's chosen morning excursion. Greg couldn't blame him. _Fuck that was not a good decision_. He stared at Sherlock incredulously, and the younger man glared back with defiance, though he attempted to maintain a certain flippant "I could care less" position with the rest of his body. The combination didn't work at all. Apparently, though, Mycroft hadn't finished. When he began talking again, Greg's head swiveled to face him rapidly, "In point of _fact_, Sherlock was so _very_ _meticulous_ in his surveillance that he _actually_ _collided_ with the good doctor." Mycroft's hands were now gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that Greg thought he was going to leave permanent imprints.

"You can't be serious?" Greg turned to Sherlock for confirmation and the detective only gazed back impassively, which was all the verification that Greg needed, "Have you completely taken leave of your senses?" he said, and he was now close to shouting himself.

"Of course I haven't," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well you could've bloody fooled me! What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous that was?"

"John was not in any danger from falling, in fact—"

"Bloody idiot, that's _not_ what I'm talking about, and you _know_ it! Don't be difficult."

"I do not believe that he is _capable_ of behaving in a _mature_ fashion," Mycroft asserted acidly, "heaven _forbid_ that he should conduct himself like an _adult_ for _once_ in his life."

"Mycroft," Greg said firmly, "enough," Mycroft appeared incensed, but Greg waved him down, "I'm not saying you're wrong, but lay off for a minute. Both of you are acting like children. Yes, I'm serious. Sherlock don't look so damn smug."

Navigating this was complicated at best, and Greg was developing a headache right between his eyes, coincidentally, the spot where the majority of his frown lines converged. He honestly didn't know if he could neutralize this situation.

"Why would you do something so bloody reckless?" he asked, completely flat.

Sherlock's eyes appeared dead. Greg's frown deepened, "You have us going around _lying_ to John to fucking 'protect' him. Has it crossed your mind that it's a _bit_ hard to do that while you're running into him on a _bloody_ _bicycle_! How could you be that stupid?"

Mycroft took Greg's exasperated sigh and defeated incredulity, as the perfect moment to chime in, "He _clearly_ made the most _irrational_ and _unfortunate_ choice of letting his _heart_ rule his _head_ in a situation in which that _decision_ is _unsustainable_."

Pieces clicked in Greg's head, like a complex puzzle suddenly forming an image. _Oh_, he thought, and then, _Oh, fuck_. _Of bloody course_.

Greg tiredly rubbed his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure. He rested his hand on Mycroft's shoulder, which Mycroft held and squeezed tightly. Greg looked at his partner, and they conducted an entirely silent conversation. Greg affirmed that Mycroft was right, but this had to do with feelings and he should try to remain calm while Greg took the lead. Mycroft apologized for behaving irrationally and for whatever fault he played in Sherlock's inability to handle these things. That done, Greg walked over and sat next to his boy (_why is he always __mine__ when he's in sodding trouble and acting like a right poncey git?_).

"I know that you miss John," he said quietly, as if approaching a very skittish animal, "Honest, it must be bloody hard, Sherlock, but you can't keep doing this…"

He trailed off, considering how to continue, "You're brilliant, and you can do things that ordinary people couldn't dream off, all right? No one's denying it. But even you can't keep this up."

Greg glanced at Mycroft, who nodded in encouragement, but wisely kept silent, letting Greg muddle his way through this dangerous territory, "You either have to keep John in the dark, or just quit this whole thing and come home already. You can't do both. You can't play like this, running into him on the street, messing about with his head. He's fucked up enough as it is," Greg's mind drifted to an image of John sitting in 221B holding a gun. The blogger was already haunted by his memories of Sherlock; he didn't need the real thing adding to the instability of his fragile state. "None of us can afford that."

Sherlock glowered and placed his face in his hands, "It is _not_ a game."

"You're right," Greg agreed, "It's the most fucking serious thing we've had to deal with in our lives. That's what I'm telling you this," he rested his hand on Sherlock's bowed shoulder in comfort and affirmation.

"You can't have these close calls. You just can't."

"I—" Sherlock took a deep breath, and Mycroft looked stricken, staring at his brother with a sudden onslaught of tenderness and loss. It was as if he were seeing a younger version of Sherlock, one who had fallen and scraped his knee or was sitting sad and alone because none of the other children would play with him. Mycroft couldn't help or protect him at his most vulnerable even though he wanted to. Greg felt his heart go out to his partner and he tried to convey as much love as he could from where he sat, both to the boy next to him and the man across from him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I am—I am _not right_ without John. I wanted to see him."

Greg heaved a sigh, "I know…really. You miss him. That's bloody normal."

Sherlock scoffed at the reference to being anything less than extraordinary. "Look, mate, even geniuses have feelings," he said, "your brother's living proof," Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Greg smirked before turning serious again, "so are you. You wouldn't be acting like an idiot if you didn't miss John. Sometimes, uh, love makes a bloke a bit irrational."

Sherlock glanced up with incredulity, and Greg cut him off before he could begin, "Don't give me any of that bloody 'caring is not an advantage' bollocks either. Why else are you doing this? You damn moron. Whether you admit it or not, you're a bloody emotional mess."

"Well it's clearly _not_ an advantage if I can't behave objectively," Sherlock said.

"It is only a _disadvantage_ because you refuse to _acknowledge_ and _control_ it," Mycroft said finally, "There is an important _distinction_ to be made between moments in which it is _acceptable_ to allow your emotions to govern your actions and those in which you _must_ control them," he shook his head ruefully, "In order to determine the _wisest_ course of action, it is absolutely _essential_ that you acknowledge the causes _behind_ your actions and the _motivations_ that _propel_ them."

Sherlock glared at his brother before glancing at Greg tiredly. The DI felt himself cave slightly under the sadness in his eyes. _It's bloody good I didn't raise him; he would have had me wrapped around his finger at the age of three_.

"I care about John," he said, gripping his hair like he might go mad and could somehow extract these wayward feelings forcibly through his skull. _Good luck with that_. His tone, however, was totally devoid of emotion.

"Yeah," Greg confirmed, "We all cottoned on to that quite quickly. Look, I'm not, ah, saying that you can't see him, all right? But you need to finish this bloody business with Moriarty so that you can come back for real." He took in Sherlock's increased pallor, gauntness, and the steadily twitching of fingers and legs, "This isn't good for anyone, least of all you and John."

Sherlock seemed pleased that Greg had not attempted to dissuade him from direct participation in the completion of his mission. Mycroft was less pleased, but Greg knew that trying to talk Sherlock out of it would likely just result in him becoming more set on it.

"Gregory is quite right," Mycroft agreed, "Now, why don't you get something to eat and change out of that _ridiculous_ costume." Sherlock smirked at the notion that Mycroft could hardly stand having a bicycle courier, however false, in his office.

"My's right," Greg said, giving Sherlock's arm one final squeeze, "Reckon you could do with some food and some sleep."

Sherlock, still shell shocked from his earlier admission, squinted between them, clearly deducing something. Apparently, the conclusions he reached were positive. He nodded tightly and rose to his feet, pausing as he reached the door handle and turning back to face them. "Thank you," he said tightly before disappearing down the corridor.

Once he had gone, Greg buried his face in his hands with a groan. Mycroft came over to sit with him, placing a hand on the spot in his neck that held all the tension form the altercation they had just had. "Well _done_," the elder Holmes said, "I _believe_ that that was the most _effective_ diffusion that you have performed yet."

Greg laughed and then groaned again before sitting up and facing Mycroft, who looked exhausted, "I think that's the first time he's thanked you in about six years."

"Well," Mycroft said crisply, "yet another sign that the apocalypse is nigh."

Greg guffawed, "Maybe that will solve all our problems for us…wait you haven't actually helped organize the apocalypse, have you?"

Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg lightly before gracefully rising to his feet and smoothing his vest with purpose, "I am afraid that even _my_ authority does not extend _quite_ that far," he looked serious, but Greg wasn't sure that he believed him.

Mycroft extended his hand. Greg took it, allowing himself to be pulled into a standing position.

"Now, I believe that my brother is not the _only_ one in need of sustenance. I am _positively_ famished and _you_ clearly need to imbibe _something_…Besides you shall _undoubtedly_ be prevailed upon to force _your_ boy to eat something. I know how much you _enjoy_ that task."

As they walked towards the kitchen Greg elbowed Mycroft lightly, who made a face of mocked outrage, "Why is he _your_ brother when he's done something brilliant and _my_ boy when he's acting like a bloody prat?"

Mycroft kissed Greg again and smiled brightly, "Because you are _clearly_ the more terrible influence on his _behavior_." Greg just rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Hello Everyone. Welcome to Chapter 14. Sorry for the delay. I am approaching the last week of term, which means lots of grading and academic/professional writing. That being said, hopefully by Wednesday I shall be back on track in terms of fic writing and posting. _

_What did you think of this chapter? Enjoy the brotherly bickering? The forced discussion of emotions? Sherlock almost running John down on a bicycle? Sherlock disguised as a courier? _

_Please, please, please, leave a review if you get the chance. Thank you for taking the time to read!_


	15. Timing

A month passed. A routine was established. A détente was achieved. A relative new definition of normalcy instated. That didn't really mean that things were better.

Greg was uncertain how the situation could be improved. Sherlock's mission persisted, and the sad fact was that its conclusion still did not appear to be within sight. Or, at least, that's how things seemed. It was difficult, bordering on impossible, to get any sort of definitive response on that subject. The ambiguity alone was highly disconcerting, but it was exacerbated by the fact that the consulting detective continued to travel farther afield and closer to home with escalating erraticism. It prompted Mycroft to increase his efforts to keep his "eye" on his baby brother, which is to say that he daily got into heated exchanges with his field agents, who were regularly evaded by Sherlock. It wasn't a surprise, not really, but it was becoming more and more frustrating. Sherlock's focus on the task at hand seemed concentrated, verging on fanaticism. Greg personally believed that the younger man had crossed that line long since, and it made him nervous. If he were the type to chew his nails, they would have been bitten down to the quick by now. As things stood, he was probably overdosing on antacids in an attempt to alleviate the knots in his stomach.

He and Mycroft received what was quite possibly the most hideous post-card that Greg had ever had the misfortune to lay his eyes on from Rome, which by all rights should have actually been lovely. Mycroft stared at it dubiously, with a strange twist to his mouth that alerted Greg to the fact that an inside joke and critique lurked somewhere beneath the horrible cacophony of colors it portrayed. Three days later, Mycroft got a text from an unknown number that he had traced back to Rio de Janeiro. Then Sherlock disappeared for a week with absolutely no news, which put both Greg and Mycroft completely on edge.

Mycroft exhibited this tension by being even more prim and proper than usual. If Greg hadn't actually witnessed this behavior, he would have thought it impossible. The elder Holmes became increasingly fixated on organization, having everything just so. The flat was more pristine than Greg had ever seen it during the weeks that they went without news, and he rather got the impression that several people in the "office" received the brunt of Mycroft's anxiety in the form of intensive verbal invectives and scathing criticism entirely disproportionate to anything that they may have actually done. John also had more contact during those moments than he necessarily wanted or enjoyed. The blogger rather received twice the attention when Sherlock dropped off the face of the earth, and Greg received several texts complaining about Mycroft. John maintained that he had given him a near heart-attack by turning up unexpectedly in the kitchen and the sitting room of 221B apropos of nothing and at the most peculiar hours. Greg didn't have the heart to critique Mycroft, not when he himself had taken to dropping round to Baker Street with such frequency.

How did Greg deal with this increased tension? He cooked. A lot. There was such an overflow of complex dessert items in the flat that he had taken to bringing them into the office to distribute to the staff at large, much to their bemusement and delight. Greg had a reached a strange point. Sherlock being abroad on a dangerous mission with little contact was the routine now. It was normative. So in a lot of ways, Greg could go an hour or two where things were just rolling along nicely. He was focused on the complicated forms he needed to file at the Yard, the conversation he was having with a colleague over coffee, the gruesome splatter of blood on a crime scene, the exacting details of the chocolate soufflé recipe he was working on (much to Mycroft's pleasure), the program he was watching on the telly, the football match he was playing in the park, the dinner he was having with Mycroft and the way that his partner's long, elegant fingers handled the cutlery with such poise and delicacy. Things would seem normal, trivial, a flash of before, then: WHAM, like a freight train, he would be hit with the realization that Sherlock might be dead, that he might be injured, or sick, or doing something infinitely stupid. The last of which was far too likely for Greg's ease of mind. He would suddenly feel like he might be ill. Not to mention guilty for having lost sight of the reality of the situation for even a moment. He would then allow himself to become caught up, once again, in the feeling of uncertainty and fretting. This cycle was infinitely difficult to maintain. It had reached a point where he was actually compelled to listen to those "relaxation" CDs that Mycroft had gotten him for Christmas a few years back (partially as a joke). They were meant to be soothing: sounds of the ocean, birds chirping, rain, some mind-numbingly peaceful voice (it was indecent really) droning on about breathing techniques. Greg could only handle about five minutes at most before he literally ripped off his headphones, threw them across the room, and cursed fluently.

At least he and Mycroft were in a good place for the most part. _About time too. Feels like I can breathe again._ Worrying over Sherlock had always been something they shared. A lovely couples' activity. It was what had brought them together in the first place, after all. Granted, the concern was functioning at a wholly new level at present, but they had, more-or-less mended their issues. Mycroft and Greg were in this together and they understood and respected their positions regarding Sherlock's death, resurrection, and ongoing mission. They had definitely arrived at a point in which a focus on the present rather than the past was essential. The strength of their relationship had been put to the test and had come out the stronger for it.

It was lucky that they had each other during this time because, honestly, periods of waiting for news were unbearably trying. Greg was downing coffee like a madman. He was also developing a nervous tic in his hand and a constant propensity towards fidgeting. Mycroft, by contrast, became more and more still and poised as the time between news from Sherlock lengthened. Each of his movements was calculated and precise. Watching the two of them in the same room was certainly interesting during these periods. You had Mycroft sitting at the table, turning each page of the paper with exacting fastidiousness, taking the most deliberate sip of tea you had ever seen, inclining his head or lifting his brow with nothing short of calculation, as if each individual muscle contracted in progression. By contrast, you had Greg sitting in his seat, trying to absorb the sports page, sipping periodically at his third cup of strong espresso, jogging his leg under the table, tapping his fingers on the edge of his plate in a manic rhythm, and looking at his mobile every few seconds. Every so often, Mycroft would glance (with exactitude) at Greg's persistent twitches, and Greg would look up a bit guiltily and take a deep breath, trying to slow himself down. It was only about five minutes until he was back to twitching.

The cycle was becoming a pattern. Sherlock would leave and they would be sad but calm. That would last a day or two. But then, the anxiety would set in. The longer they went without notice from Sherlock the more tense they became. The problem, of course, was that there was not necessarily a rhyme or reason behind Sherlock's missives and, though they had more or less reached a system for dealing with this, there was always the chance that this was the time that they wouldn't hear from Sherlock at all. That he wasn't coming back. That fear only increased with each parting since Sherlock became more and more manic and despondent and his points of contact farther and farther apart. It was becoming more common for him to not send them anything: not a text, not a call, not an email, not a post-card. They would have confirmation of his continued survival by his random appearance in the flat after a fortnight of nothing. If they were lucky, some exceptionally and surprisingly talented member of Mycroft's unit would stumble upon information that would provide them with a sense of well-being for at least a few days.

"Moscow," Mycroft said suddenly one evening when he came home from work three weeks after Sherlock's most recent departure to find Greg sitting on the sofa, watching the news without much interest. The DI immediately sat at attention.

"What?" he said.

Mycroft kissed him quickly, as he began to divest himself of his coat, briefcase, and umbrella, "Have you eaten yet? If you are feeling so _inclined_, perhaps we should go out for—"

"Sherlock's in Moscow?"

"Of _course_. Haven't I _just_ said that?" Mycroft was positively cheery, as he straightened assorted memorabilia above the mantle. Greg had to grin too, it was infectious.

"Well that's bloody great news," he got up, spun Mycroft around with possessive hands on his waist, and kissed him soundly. It had been _three_ _weeks_ with no news at all, the longest phase yet. Their nerves had been frayed to the breaking point. This was a cause for celebration, over dinner, and a solid planning session to construct the lecture Sherlock was bound to receive when he finally got back to London. That speech was undoubtedly going to be handled jointly. It was certain to be one for the record books.

"Dinner," Greg agreed, "we'll even go to that shoddy French place you like." Shoddy of course meant the best, most expensive, and most ridiculously posh place he had ever been in his life: suit, jacket, and tie required, more silverware than was strictly necessary, and lots of violin music. Mycroft preened with the suggestion, and Greg smiled even more brightly to see the weight lifted from Mycroft's face, the stress alleviated for a moment. It was such a rare occurrence these days. He wondered if his own face looked similarly lighter, his shoulders less hunched beneath the heaviness of guilt and worry.

They flirted over dinner, talked about "normal" things. They ate decadent foods and drank a bottle of wine. They were completely at ease. Greg made fun of Mycroft's snobbish tastes and Mycroft told Greg to shut it if he wanted another slice of desert, let alone sex when they got home. It was around this time that they asked for the check.

They took a cab and snogged in the car like teenagers. Greg honestly couldn't remember the last time they had had such a carefree night. He could feel the joy in Mycroft's mouth on his neck. He could feel it in Mycroft's heart as it beat beneath his hand. He could feel it in the familiarity and the exhilaration coursing through his veins. They got home, stumbled up the stairs together, giddy and light. Mycroft was dashingly disheveled, and it made Greg's desire to drag him straight the bedroom even stronger.

Greg opened the door, and Mycroft was on him in a second. Devouring him as if he were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Greg tossed the keys vaguely in the direction of the end table, but he was pretty positive that his aim was off. Not that he cared. He had far more interesting things with which to be concerned. Mycroft had him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him up against the wall, as Greg unfastened and wiped off Mycroft's tie with a resounding snap.

"It has been _far_ too long," Mycroft growled as he started working at Greg's buttons, biting and sucking his way down the DI's neck. Greg groaned, "Shut up," as one hand undid Mycroft's waistcoat (Greg's favorite in fact) and the other grabbed his arse. The man was right. It had been far, _far_ too long. Their hips ground together and Mycroft hissed. Greg frantically began clawing at Mycroft's belt. He felt his partner reciprocating the action and he was relatively sure that they were _not_ going to make it to the bedroom. _I don't bloody give a damn_. They were going to have at it here, in the foyer, and then in the sitting room, maybe the kitchen, and then the bedroom, and then—he didn't really care because it had been _weeks_ and damn it all if he wasn't going to enjoy every second of tonight. It was at that exact moment, when he was reaching for Mycroft's zipper, when he felt his partner's cool hand against his lower abdomen and shuddered in response, drunk on wine and lust and love and anticipation that—

"Hello, brother," came a cold calculating voice, dripping with amused disdain from the sofa. _Oh, please not now_, Greg silently pleaded. However, the voice seemed immune to such invocation and continued "Lestrade. Dear heavens, is this what you get up to when I'm away?"

Greg groaned and this time it was not with lust but with complete misery. _Why? Is this some joke? I ask for Sherlock to come back and it had to have been __now__? At this __precise__ bloody__ moment__? __Really__? He has the worst fucking timing in the whole sodding world._ Mycroft sighed, gritted his teeth, and backed away with the same sentiment clear on his face. They straightened up for a moment (Greg fastening the silver buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat, Mycroft straightening the collar of Greg's shirt) before turning to face Sherlock in unison. It was not a pleasant sight they met.

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><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 15. Just for the record. The ending scene in the chapter takes place about five months after Reichenbach. Did you enjoy? Things you like? Dislike? Please, take the time to leave a review if you get the chance. It would make me really happy (and probably encourage the next chapter). Much love._


	16. First Aid

Greg was the one to turn on the lamps. Mycroft hadn't made a move towards the switch, and Sherlock remained seated in the shadows. There was probably some sort of "night vision" gene that ran in the Holmes line, but Greg, like the rest of those lesser mortals populating the earth, required artificial light, especially if he was going to deal with whatever had brought Sherlock home at such an inopportune moment.

Just a flick of the fingers and the sitting room was bathed in a warm glow. Just a flick of the fingers and Greg wished they were still in the dark. The light bathed the artwork that hung on the walls and sat upon the mantle, the burnished spines of the books on the shelves, the plush leather sofa, and the consulting detective lounged upon its pillows.

The second it illuminated Sherlock's alabaster skin, Mycroft hissed and Greg's jaw dropped. The DI made to move towards Sherlock, but Mycroft caught him by the arm with a vice-like grip that was sure to leave marks. Greg stared at the hand for a second before his eyes darted to Mycroft's face. His partner's eyes were like chips of ice and his expression contained that smoldering anger that didn't burn hot, but seared dangerously cold and bitter. Greg knew that it was not directed at him. He also knew that someone was going to be in serious trouble in relation to what had happened to Sherlock. The hand, the long elegant fingers, which were marking his own sinewy forearms with bruises, was a warning: it was a reminder not to make a hasty move. It was also, and Greg knew this instinctively, Mycroft's attempt to ground himself, to keep his rage from boiling over and destroying something or someone. Greg felt his own jaw clench, nodded at Mycroft, and moved swiftly, but as calmly as possible, towards the sofa where Sherlock now sat.

The consulting detective had a strange sort of smile on his face. That was odd in and of itself: Sherlock hadn't _smiled_ in…well, now that Greg thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen anything even remotely resembling a grin on the young man's face. Probably, not since John broke the Chief Superintendent's nose. Five months later, Sherlock was smirking. It was an oddly detached smile, seemingly disconnected from anything that was going on at present. Greg assumed as much, given that walking in on Mycroft and Greg snogging like fiends (or them walking in on Sherlock, doing whatever he was doing, the DI supposed) was not a cause for amusement. Not even to Sherlock, who loved to take the mickey out of either or both of them whenever possible in his attempt to be an annoying prat, or an exceptionally bombastic younger brother.

Unfortunately the peculiar disconnected smile was not the only thing amiss. No, aside from the anomalous grin was the fact the Sherlock had a long gash across one cheek bone, significant bruising on the other, and a split lip that was swelling rapidly. He was not bedecked in any sort of strange costume, but rather, his normal clothes. They were not, however, arranged, with his customary fastidiousness, the attention to detail that he shared with his elder brother. His suit jacket was thrown carelessly on the floor. The white button down was exceedingly rumpled, in addition to being too tight. The buttons were skewed and mismatched. One sleeve was rolled up above the elbow, revealing a cut across his forearm; the other hung loose and creased in all of the wrong places with a tear near the shoulder.

Sherlock was lounged, and Greg really meant sprawled, across the sofa. The normal tension, the kinetic energy that was so much a part of Sherlock, that was so characteristic of him, was gone. Completely and utterly absent. It was eerie. It was like whatever made Sherlock Sherlock had disappeared, vanished inside himself or fluttered away. He sat boneless, relaxed: one arm dangling over the edge of the sofa., one thrown casually over its back, his legs strewn out, occupying as much space as was humanly possible. His head tilted back, as if detached from his neck. Greg felt a wave of panic rising through his chest coursing through his veins and echoing in the pulse beat thudding in his ears. This was dredging up painful and far too recent memories.

He crouched down near Sherlock's head, looking for any more serious injuries, hands hovering near his face without touching. _He was being a snarky git not three minutes ago, surely he can't be fatally injured_.

"Sherlock," he demanded, fear making his voice sharper than was its custom, "Sherlock, are you all right? What happened?"

Mycroft had come to stand behind Greg, silent as ever, and he loomed with such tension and authority etched into every line of his face and plane of his body that he seemed a statue. It was actually quite frightening, and there was already far too much to be concerned with presently. Mycroft's eyes were the only part of him that gave the impression that he was, in fact, not made of marble, that belied the ire that was coming off of him in waves so strong that Greg could feel them buffeting against his face. They were flicking over his brother's still form, slowly and mindfully, and Greg knew that motion well. It was the observational gaze, the deductive one, the way that Sherlock was able to tell you how long you'd been married, what you'd had for dinner Tuesday last, or how many times you'd fallen from your bicycle as a child. Or, in this case, what the bloody hell was wrong with the world's only consulting detective. At least, that's what Greg rather hoped that he was doing because Sherlock had not responded to his entreaties. His breathing was shallow; he hadn't so much as twitched. If this were some elaborate game, Greg was not amused. He was also relatively sure that he was not lucky enough for this to be a hoax.

He glanced at his partner, who had not allowed his gaze to drift from Sherlock, or otherwise moved in any way.

"Gregory—" Mycroft began slowly, enunciating each syllable with clipped precision.

Greg's mind was making a very unpleasant deduction of its own and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Sherlock," he implored, tamping down on his thoughts for as long as he could possibly ignore them, "Sherlock, what the fucking hell happened?" there was a pause of deadening silence, "Anytime you would like to respond?" He turned to Mycroft and asking, "Should we call the hospital?" before realizing that having a supposedly dead man stroll into the emergency room of St. Bart's was probably not a wise, let alone viable, course of action.

He took Sherlock's pulse, fast and reedy, and was just about to shake Sherlock or Mycroft, not sure which one would be first, when, "Please, do shut _up_," Sherlock said.

Greg let out a huge sigh of relief, which, given Sherlock's chosen response, was rather indicative of Greg's anxiety levels. Mycroft, however, did not respond in any way. He remained standing in a completely erect attitude, with a calculating look on his face that was wholly alarming.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" Greg said loudly, clearly, and with increased urgency, "What the hell happened?"

Silence ensued.

"Sherlock?"

"It really doesn't matter," the consulting detective replied languidly. There was not a distinct enunciation to his words. He was speaking more slowly than normal. Greg's first thought was brain damage, which, really, given who Sherlock _was_ might actually be the worst version of hell possible. If Greg were being completely honest with himself, though, that was not his first thought, not even close. He _had_ seen Sherlock like this before, but not for a very _very_ long time.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. His tone was firm, though, thankfully, not as wrathful as his face. It was his most parental elder brother voice and it brooked no resistance.

Sherlock did open his eyes then. Greg felt his heart plummet. The frosty blue was relegated to the thinnest circle around the edge. His pupils were dilated, blown wide and dark.

"_Fuck_," Greg cursed under his breath.

Mycroft carried on, a soldier about to march into battle. Greg knew that he must be wishing for his umbrella at this moment: the elder Holmes had his hands clasped in a white knuckled grip behind his back. Truthfully, Greg was so sure that this situation was beyond his capacity to act or resolve that he let Mycroft take the lead completely and totally. His partner's chosen tactic seemed to be asking the most simplified questions possible.

"What have you _done_?" he inquired.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering his brother carefully, but in an entirely more mocking way than was his custom, or perhaps just in a manner unmediated by the scant filters that he typically maintained on his social interactions.

"It would appear that I have injured my face," Sherlock allowed.

Mycroft didn't even roll his eyes, which alone showed of the direness of the situation.

"And _how_, pray tell, did you _injure_ your face?" he said as if speaking to a particularly recalcitrant and slow witted child. Perhaps, in this moment, he actually was.

"My _dear_ brother, it really isn't your concern—"

"Oh, I am _quite_ certain that it _does_," Greg understood that to mean that Mycroft wanted the names of people to torture and kill in retribution for his brother before returning home and murdering Sherlock in the slowest most painful way possible. Greg didn't have any objections to this, but he did plan on intervening before Sherlock actually died. Maybe, he would allow that to pass provided that had they could find another miraculous way to revive the idiot somewhere in there.

"Anyway, I am perfectly fine," the consulting detective assured them. Somehow the relaxed tone with which he said it was anything but reassuring. Greg's internal monologue was at a loss for words to express what a complete fucking idiot Sherlock was in this situation and how absolutely and incontrovertibly unacceptable he found it. _Oh God,_ he groaned inside, _Mycroft has taken over my internal monologue_.

"You," Greg said, and his voice was trembling with barely contained rage at whoever had done this to Sherlock and for what Sherlock had clearly done to himself. He began to question which had come first. Protective instincts vied with his desire to strangle Sherlock as soon as he was patched up. _That would be counterproductive_. He ignored his own voice and persevered, "are about as far from _fine_ as it is fucking possible to be."

"Clearly," Mycroft added sardonically, scathingly, "you _seem_ to have taken _matters_ into your own hands. Dabbling in s_e_lf-medication, are we?"

"What are you on?" Greg asked much more bluntly, taking his cue from Mycroft.

Sherlock glared at them, and it was a far less severe one than was normal for him, what with his unfocused gaze and wounded face. He then opted to ignore the concerned and enraged faces that peered into his intensely in favor of returning to the sedated bliss in which he had been immersed when they had stumbled upon him. Closing his eyes and leaning back, eschewing the horrid world in which he was trapped. This wordless denial of Greg and Mycroft might as well have been a slap in the face.

"Oh no you don't," Greg said, forcing Sherlock to sit up. _His face is bloodied, he's been beaten to a pulp, he's as high as a ruddy kite, and now he wants to drift away to dream land. I don't bloody think so. He's got a concussion at the very least_. Mycroft, however, moved for the first time since they had approached Sherlock. He stepped closer to Greg and laid a hand on this shoulder all the while gazing speculatively at his brother.

"Gregory," he said, so calm and controlled that Greg could sense his tones chilling him like a cold gust of wind, "why don't you go and get some antiseptic and bandages for this _creature_? I _daresay_ he shall _need_ them. _I_ will make sure he does not do _anything_ foolish in the meantime, although, I _doubt_ that he will be able to _stop_ himself."

Greg hesitated for the barest second. Concerned that Mycroft might smother the seemingly docile Sherlock to death with one of those satin pillows that he insisted they own; yet also aware that Mycroft's directive was sound. Sherlock's face was bleeding and his cheek and mouth continued to swell. _Fine_, he decided, wincing at the stiffness in his knees as he got up from the floor, _if Mycroft murders him it's no more than he deserves. _Greg was not inclined to be merciful given the direction that this evening had gone.

Thankfully, they were always well stocked on medical supplies. _Not one person in this bloody family has a risk free job_: consulting detective, Detective Inspector, British Government, army-doctor. It was a wonder that Mycroft hadn't insisted that they built a surgery and a convalescent home somewhere within their house. It would have actually saved quite a lot of time, Greg thought, provided Mycroft could employ a medical team and ensure their "discretion," which he of course _could_.

The DI grabbed the necessary items and returned a few moments later with a basin of warm water, a cloth, bandages, antiseptic, cream, he had decided against pain-killers, it appeared that Sherlock had already taken his fill of those without any help.

He was surprised to notice that neither Holmes had moved during his absence, apparently neither had spoken, and Sherlock was still breathing, so it would seem that Mycroft had decided to postpone his imminent execution for the time being.

Mycroft gave a curt nod to Greg, and the DI set to work.

"All right mate," he pulled Sherlock into a sitting position, the boy was both resistant and strangely pliable. It was strangely reminiscent of trying to organize a particularly heavy and angular sack into position, "Up you get."

Once Sherlock had been arranged into a sitting position (and extremely reclined one), Greg began to wipe away the blood from his face. Sherlock didn't move, which was strange, given that Greg was sure that what he was doing, no matter how gentle, still hurt quite a bit. Mycroft leaned over to force his brother's eyes open and peer into them.

"He doesn't need stiches at least," Greg affirmed once he'd removed most of the excess blood to reveal the gashes beneath. He was exceptionally relieved. He hadn't particularly fancied the idea of trying to stich up Sherlock's face in their sitting room. He certainly _could_, he had the skills and the necessary equipment, but it wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.

Mycroft drew back, and his face was contorted with an odd combination of disgust and (Greg thought or at least hoped) relief. "It would _appear_ that he is not _concussed_, at least."

"Well there's that," the DI sighed as he began to dab the abrasions with medical ointment.

"I told you I was _fine_," Sherlock interrupted hazily.

That was too much for Mycroft, who drew up to his full height and appeared on the verge of positively combusting, "_Oh_," Greg continued his task methodically without responding to Mycroft's tone. The man deserved to let it out if that's what he needed, and Greg suspected that he did and had for a very long time, "and how much of that "_fine_" is attributed to the _healthy_ dose of _morphine_ you decided to inject?"

Sherlock smirked, "It certainly improves the experience."

Greg thought that Mycroft might strangle Sherlock. He was clenching and unclenching his fingers and working his jaw. Greg could see the ire travelling up his chest leaving a red flush and flashing eyes.

"You are a complete and utter—"

Greg cleared his throat and stilled for a moment before continuing his ministrations. He paused to give Mycroft a look that quite clearly said "Leave it until tomorrow. There's nothing to be done while he's like this except work yourself into a right state." Mycroft's nostrils flared, and he seemed to swallow whatever retort he was about to unleash. It rather looked like he was in danger of choking on his own tongue as he attempted to refrain from responding. He glared at Sherlock, nodded at Greg, and then spun on his heel and left the room before he could unleash his invective.

Greg applied gauze in the ensuing stillness. Sherlock wasn't making it difficult, but he wasn't making it easy either. Greg sighed into the silence.

"You should be nicer to your brother," he said as he placed a bandage on Sherlock's arm.

The consulting detective scoffed.

"I'm serious, mate—is this too tight?-you've been fucking foolish," he affirmed, if Sherlock could have been bothered to open his eyes he would have rolled them caustically and emphatically, "And you're not going to listen to me at all." Sherlock _could_ be bothered enough to shake his head slowly back and forth mouthing the word no. Completely irreverent and immature. _This is what fucking happens when you give him fucking opiates._ _Of course, that would imply that he would have to be given them rather than help himself when he feels like it_. Greg understood the need for pain-relief, he'd been hurt enough in his life to respect that. But honestly, Sherlock should _know_ better. He _does _know better. There was no way that he should have or would have done this under other circumstances. If Greg had had a bit more energy, he would have grabbed Sherlock by the chin, forced him to see reason, and taken him to task for completely losing his mind. As it was, Greg realized that he should probably follow his own advice and wait until tomorrow.

"All right," he said instead, placing the bloodied cloths on the table to his side, "Let's get you settled in. You think you can behave yourself out here for the night?"

He didn't wait for a response, but grabbed a pillow and a throw blanket from the cupboard next to the book shelves. He fluffed the pillow and guided the unresisting detective onto it, throwing a blanket casually over Sherlock's supine form.

"Stop talking," the prone boy said, seemingly content.

"Go to sleep," Greg encouraged softly. He hesitated for the barest second before resting his hand on Sherlock's forehead. It was reassuringly alive. The consulting detective batted his hand away vaguely muttering something like, "not now John." Greg just sighed and left the room.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_ Welcome to Chapter 16. Thank you all so much for sticking with me through my crazy posting schedule these past few weeks. Thank you also for taking the time to read and review, you really got me through a stressful time. Finals are over, the grading is done, and I shall reply to all those lovely reviews later today. I finished this chapter in an airport and I should now be back to a more regular posting schedule._

_What did you think of this chapter? Was it worth the wait? Please, share your thoughts!_

_Much love._


	17. A Brother's Guilt

"I wash my hands of him!" Mycroft said firmly, throwing his arms towards the sky in an attitude of complete disgust and annoyance.

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, "No you don't," he insisted.

"I _assure_ you, Gregory, that I most certainly _do_," Mycroft hissed, "His behaviors are no longer _tenable_. He scorns any _aid_ that we offer and our _continual_ appeals to _rational_ thought. He has _obviously_, _finally_, lost his _mind_. I say that we _leave_ him to the _madness_ to which he so _desperately_ cleaves. On his head be it."

Greg sighed. Mycroft had had what he could only describe as a sort of breakdown over Sherlock's most recent…stunt. Having Sherlock incommunicado for three weeks only to turn up, brain addled by morphine, body broken by some, as yet undefined, errand, was apparently the straw that finally broke the camel's back. While Greg had finished patching up the young detective, Mycroft had adjourned to his study where he had undoubtedly placed some strategic phone calls to ascertain a full report of all the information that could be gathered regarding Sherlock's most current exploits.

The last time Sherlock had been in London, Greg had thought that the brothers had relatively resolved the issues between them, but it would seem that this "situation" had undone most of that work. Mycroft was refusing to elaborate upon his feelings of worry bordering on terror (because, whatever had befallen Sherlock, he hadn't been able to control or prevent it, had not even known that it was happening. This lack of information and ability to act was essentially _killing_ Mycroft inside, Greg knew), anger (directed at Sherlock and his _stupid_ return to opiates whether by accident or design, and whomever had done this to his brother in the first place), and an overwhelming sense of concern, responsibility, and uncertainty for whatever was about to happen next. Instead of receiving an intense, critical analysis of Sherlock's shortcomings, as Greg had expected upon entering the study, he had watched his partner fairly shaking with tension, drain three glasses of brandy in quick succession.

"Oi," Greg had cautioned, surprised and unnerved. Mycroft didn't like to drink in excess. He maintained that it clouded his thought processes and left him vulnerable. And, Greg had to admit that he had a point: when you engage in the profession that Mycroft does, it doesn't do to put yourself at risk unnecessarily.

"Slow it down a bit, My" he implored. Mycroft had only glared and taken a defiant gulp. Greg was, honestly, tempted to follow his lead. If anyone could do with a drink, it was him. However, sobriety seemed to be the wisest course of action. _One glass only then_. Greg helped himself to a healthy dose and sipped in slow fortifying swallows. He was not by any means a saint, his nerves were shredded to ribbons, he still had some of Sherlock's blood beneath his fingernails, and he felt shaky.

"You don't mean it," he assured his partner, who continued to punctuate his sentences with emphatic and highly theatrical hand gestures. The DI was, despite the severity of the conversation and the situation behind it, bemused by the flailing. It wasn't every day that he saw Mycroft in this state, after all. The incensed pronouncements were passionately delivered and ardently stated. They were also exaggerated, Greg knew, to cover up and conceal the real source of his upset. Thankfully, for the fate of mankind at large, Greg had had the presence of mind to remove Mycroft's mobile before things got out of hand. When he had asked for the phone, Mycroft had glared at him with extreme disbelief, as if the DI had asked for him to cut off his own hand and offer it up on a platter for his consumption.

"Come on then," Greg had encouraged, beckoning for the item to be turned over to his custody forthwith, "Don't want you starting a nuclear war because you take a fancy to the idea."

Mycroft stood, laying a hand over his own heart, "_I _am the _British_ _Government_," he declared in his absolute most condescending voice, "If I _choose_ to start a nuclear _war_, I most certainly _shall_."

Greg rolled his eyes again, but Mycroft resentfully relinquished the mobile despite his pronouncement, "Well that's as may be," the DI maintained, "but I'd rather you did that on account of, I don't know, political necessity, or personal pleasure, than because you're mad at Sherlock and looking for a way to blow off some steam." He pocketed his partner's mobile and sat heavily upon the sofa, letting it take his weight fully, as he took a sip of brandy and ran a hand over his eyes. Mycroft remained standing, pacing, restless, and implacable.

"All right, Mr. High and Mighty—"

"Your Most Excellent _Highness_ will do."

Greg chose to ignore the interjection, "Why don't you get over here, stop being a ponce, and tell me what's really upsetting you."

Mycroft stiffened and said in the most offhand manner he could, "I would _think_ that the cause of my _upset_ is _perfectly_ obvious."

Greg shook his head, not in disagreement, but assent, "Yeah, I imagine I know exactly…still, might make you feel better though." He looked at his partner full on, waiting. Mycroft considered Greg thoughtfully, carefully, and the DI, who was gazing back, could see the exact moment when his resistance fell, the defense mechanisms that he had put in place crumpled, and he recognized that maybe Greg was right (_of course I bloody am_). The tension he'd been carrying since they had come home snapped, his shoulders slumped, and his strong, stoic face slackened. He didn't look like a statue anymore but a man, a lover, a brother, a friend, a parent, with far too much on his shoulders, who was worried and tired and unsure. Greg smiled sadly and patted the place on sofa just next to him. Mycroft crossed the room and sat, taking Greg's hand in his and twining their fingers together, breathing deeply and squeezing tightly. Greg gripped back just as fiercely, taking and giving as much support as he could. They were on a rough, winding, bumpy road with precipices on either side, and monsters up ahead.

"Let's have it then," he said quietly. Greg had a strong desire to lay his head on Mycroft's shoulder and just stay there for the rest of the night, maybe the rest of his life, if he could just do that, he would be happy, he was certain of it. Unfortunately, it didn't seem a valid option just at the moment. Letting Mycroft unburden before he destroyed the planet with his angst driven frustration was the DI's top priority. He nudged his partner's knee gently with his own, encouraging, "You know you'll feel better for it."

Mycroft glanced at him and then away. "I will feel _better_ if I can wring his _neck_." Greg let that pass as Mycroft let out an exhale, swallowed, and worked his jaw for a moment as if working through some difficult problem. Greg suspected (had always suspected) that trying to explain the vast web of information, emotion, and suppressed feelings, might be among Mycroft's greatest difficulties. He had yet to be proven wrong on that score. Finally, after a moment or two, which Greg gave him freely, he shifted slightly, turning until the two of them sat face to face.

"I do not know which is the _most_ troubling aspect of this _predicament_," he paused, finding the proper words, the correct phrasing, the truth of it, "the fact that Sherlock is _badly_ hurt," he extended one long finger of his free hand, enumerating all those things which troubled him presently, "that Sherlock has turned _back_ to _drugs_ as a means of _soothing_ himself," a second finger joined the first, "or the fact that I did _not_ _know_ about _any_ of this before we returned home this _evening_," he extended a final finger before his hand transformed into a tight fist of frustration and helplessness. Greg held his other hand tightly. He understood that feeling all too well and it was only worse for Mycroft who was accustomed, for a variety of reasons, to _always_ be at least three steps ahead, to have the foresight and foreknowledge to orchestrate events and accurately predict and control outcomes. He had not (or perhaps he had, but had chosen not to) acknowledge this particular possibility. He was blaming himself and he disliked, nay, _hated_ this feeling of uncontrollability and impotence.

"None of it is good, that's for damn sure," Greg agreed, hesitating briefly before he continued, "What d'you reckon happened?"

Mycroft scrubbed his face thoroughly with his free hand and he looked exhausted, "I would _assume_ that something did not go _fully_ in accordance with my brother's plans regarding the most _recent_ node of Moriarty's network…that being said, the specifics are _unclear_ and I admit to a _woeful_ lack of intel, insight, and _surety_ regarding Sherlock's recent _activities_." He looked defeated, broken, and as if the burden of this entire thing rested on him.

Greg was not having that. He released Mycroft's hand, moved closer to his partner, and wrapped his arm around his stooped shoulders, "Hey, it's not, My, it isn't your fault, all right?" Mycroft snorted derisively, and Greg shook his head. _Too bloody wrapped up in his own self import_, "Every _bloody_ _thing_ that happens isn't on you. You couldn't have known about this—"

"It is my _job_ to _know_—"

"We both know that if Sherlock doesn't want you following him then you won't get a sodding peep—"

"That is _not_ the _point_, Gregory," Mycroft was vibrating with some powerful emotion, but Greg kept his hold firm.

"Then what is?"

"He is my _brother_," Mycroft exploded, his carefully modulated voice was raw and strained, "It is my _duty_ to look after him, to _protect_ him, to _keep_ him _safe_," the desperation, the years of guilt and responsibility and regret that laced through every single painful word were the saddest things that Greg had ever heard. He leaned closer to Mycroft, letting him release whatever this was that he'd been holding, pressing his forehead against Mycroft's shoulder in support.

"I admit, _freely_, that I have not always performed this task _admirably_," his tone was harsh and choked, Greg had his eyes closed, but he was quite certain that Mycroft might be crying, "Indeed, there have been many _moments_…many instances where I have, in _fact_…_failed_, tremendously…" he paused collecting, or attempting to collect himself, "I _understand_ why Sherlock is very, shall we say, _hesitant _to trust me with John's care or even with yours. He _doubts_ my motivations and my dedication, but I would _die _for him. I am meant to _look after _him and _this_, what he is _doing_…he _needs _me, more than _ever_, and yet he makes it _impossible_ and I _can_ _do_ _nothing_."

Greg actually felt his heart tear in two. He placed a comforting kiss on Mycroft's shoulder, though he doubted that it would mend all the parts of him that were broken, jagged, and bent. He could not fix what was damaged between the Holmes brothers, however much he might wish to, or try, not fully.

"Oh, My—" Greg soothed, but Mycroft shook his head.

"I do not require your _pity_, Gregory, this is my _own_ doing, and yet…I _cannot_ allow this."

"It's not pity, idiot," Greg said, "I love you. You hurt, I hurt. Simple as that."

Mycroft looked at him with such sorrow in his eyes, and Greg kissed him gently, placing a hand against his cheek and resting their foreheads together, as he surreptitiously wiped a tear from beneath Mycroft's eye. The elder Holmes sighed deeply at the contact, leaning the weight of his forehead, the weight of his mind and his heart, against Greg and finding firm support there, strength and stability.

"Now I don't know about all that growing up business," Greg said firmly, shaking his head when Mycroft made to interrupt, "but I _do_ know about this bloody mess we're in right now and it is absolutely _not_ your fault, not all of it. All right?"

Mycroft considered this carefully and seemed exceedingly dubious, but, after a moment, nodded curtly in assent. _I'll take what I can get_, Greg supposed, _though he's got a bloody list of regrets longer than anyone I've ever known_.

They sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating what had transpired, what might come, the fact that, at the very least, they had one another to get through this awful mess.

Greg broke the troubled quiet, he could hear both of their thoughts spinning, spiraling, and ricocheting off of one another, becoming more catastrophic on each rejoinder.

He cleared his throat and said simply, "Morphine."

Mycroft looked like it was one of the most unpleasant words he had heard in many long years in many dozen languages on this earth, "So it would _appear_."

"Bloody hell."

"Most _accurate_, I concur," Mycroft smirked for a second, just an instant, at Greg's synopsis.

"I'm not particularly chuffed about it," the DI admitted.

"_No_, nor am _I_," Mycroft's countenance had darkened once again.

Greg hesitated before continuing, and Mycroft cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. His eyes were a bit red-rimmed and his nose pinker than usual, it made Greg want to hold him close and not let go, ever. If only that were a legitimate path upon which to travel.

"Do you think that he, er, that is, d'you think that this was a one off? Or should we be more worried."

Mycroft adopted an exceedingly thoughtful expression, which Greg interpreted as a bad sign.

"I do not _know_," he admitted. _Definitely not a good sign then_. "If it was _merely_ in relation to his _injuries_ I would say most _unlikely_ but Sherlock has been—" he paused, considering the most appropriate word.

"Unstable?" Greg supplied.

"_Quite_, and I daresay there are too many _variables_ to be sure, besides which, he has been out of _sight_ for almost a _month_ during which time his _activities_, professional and recreational, were _unknown_."

"Plus he's been a fucking wreck and distracted for months, not to mention depressed, though the stubborn brat would never admit it."

"Besides which, there have been _potential_ symptoms for months—"

"Insomnia, mood swings, freaky thinness, twitchy."

"Inability to focus _properly_," Mycroft added.

"Yeah," Greg considered, "but how much of that was just _Sherlock_ and how much was drugs? You have got to admit that it is bloody hard to tell."

Mycroft inclined his head, "_Especially_ given the present _circumstances_."

Greg groaned, "So what do we do then?"

Mycroft took Greg's hand in his own and ran his thumb gently across the knuckles, "I imagine that the wisest course would be to, as you so _judiciously_ suggested, wait until tomorrow and 'sort things out' when we have all collected our _bearings_ and acquired _clearer_ heads."

Greg nodded tightly, "I reckon we should get some sleep then."

He pulled Mycroft's hand to his mouth a placed a kiss squarely on the palm before closing his fingers over it for safe keeping, and pulling Mycroft to his feet. It was quite late and he was knackered. Mycroft looked utterly exhausted, and Greg didn't blame him a bit.

"Come on then," he said tugging him gently towards the bedroom, "Maybe things will look brighter in the morning."

"I _do_ hope so," Mycroft said and he sounded so very tired.

They changed into more comfortable clothes (Greg some raggedy old sweat pants and t-shirt, Mycroft a matching silk pajama set) and collapsed into bed, feeling every second of the day weighing upon their eyelids and their bodies. Greg was not so tired that when he finally pulled the comforter over them both he didn't lean over, pulling Mycroft close into the haven of his arms, laying his head upon his shoulder, and wrapping tightly around him, protecting him from all that he could. Mycroft leaned into Greg and whispered, "I love you as well," before they drifted off.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 17. What did you think? This is one of those strange chapters that I actually started to write out several weeks ago and had to wait to write the intervening actions before I could go back and finish it. Did you enjoy? _

_I shall actually be posting a chapter of Where You Find It this weekend (I know, it has been quite some times), but there shall be an update of No Words by Monday._

_Much love until then, and please, leave a review if you can._


	18. Errant Child

The next morning Greg woke to find Mycroft snoring gently, still ensconced in the circle of his arms. The elder Holmes must have been truly exhausted because, despite the direness of the night before, and all of the pressing concerns that had undoubtedly gone round and round in his mind, he was still asleep, truly lost to the world, pushed flush against Gregory, head tucked beneath his chin. Greg placed a gentle kiss upon the mussed auburn hair. Mycroft deserved to sleep; it had been months since he had gotten a proper night's rest, well, since _either_ of them had gotten a proper night's rest, yet the clock indicated that it was a reasonable hour to be awake for normal people (far later than was customary for Mycroft).

It made sense, all things considered, that Mycroft would still be asleep, although, if Greg had thought about it last night, he would have expected to find himself waking in an empty bed. Mycroft would have long since gotten up and begun planning how to best deal with Sherlock's drug use, his injuries, his mission. Instead, months of not sleeping, coupled with an intensive altercation, and the comfort of Greg's arms had led him into a deep slumber from which, Greg was loathe to wake him.

_He just looks so damn peaceful_, Greg reflected with an accompanying twinge in his heart, knowing that the calm demeanor would disappear the second he opened his eyes and immediately sprang into action. Greg couldn't help but wish that he could join Mycroft in slumber, unfortunately, his mind was already whirring, and he gently disentangled himself from Mycroft's somnolent form as carefully as he possibly could. Mycroft was the _lightest_ sleeper Greg had ever met. He was known to be woken solely by Greg's _thoughts_, let alone his movements, so the DI was very cautious as he steadily and stealthily inched his way towards the edge of the bed, working hard not to disturb Mycroft. He had placed his feet on the carpeted floors and was just about to (very carefully) stand up, actually biting his tongue as he made to leave the bed when:

"Tracking device," his partner stated clearly and, it would appear, wholly conscious.

"_Damn_," Greg replied, "I was trying not to wake you and I—_what_?"

"I am going to _request_ that the quote, unquote, 'highly trained' medical _professionals_ at my disposal," long elegant fingers framed the words, "to _implant_ a subcutaneous tracking _device_ on Sherlock's _person_."

Greg felt his face contract into a simultaneous grimace and smile, "Er, My, do you think that Sherlock is going to, ah, give his consent for that one?"

"I _should_ have followed my _instincts_ and done this to _begin_ with," Mycroft maintained, ignoring Greg's question. Until this point, Mycroft had been thoroughly reclined in an attitude so reminiscent of sleep that Greg now wondered if his caution in getting up from bed had been necessary at all. He opened his eyes and propped himself onto his elbows, the better to make his argument. _Best way to start any day_, Greg thought.

"My—" Greg appealed.

"_Truly_, Gregory," Mycroft's tone was resigned and clearly regretful, "If I had _refused_ him permission to pursue this _inane_ project, Sherlock would _not_ currently be in a _self-induced drug coma_ with abrasions scattered across his person."

"My," Greg tried again, "this _isn't_ your fault…"

"_Gregory_," Mycroft spoke in earnest, "If I had _dissented_, _you_ would not have been caused _extreme_ emotional and psychological damage, _our_ relationship would not have been subjected to _harsh_ testing, _Sherlock_ would not presently be in _danger_, and _John_ would not have contemplated _suicide_ mere weeks ago. It is _high_ time that I set this _right_, and the _first_ thing that I plan to do is—"

"Look," Greg interjected, conviction conveyed in his tone and the way that he reached out and clasped Mycroft's hand in his own (to assuage his partner's guilt as well as his own to some extent), "Sherlock is an adult, as much as he doesn't always act it, and we can only control so much of what he does. _Especially_ in Sherlock's case," Greg's voice was inflected with a resigned cant. He had had far too many frustrating encounters with Sherlock's invocations of autonomy. He was also attempting, in some small way, to absolve his own pervading sense of responsibility, some of which Mycroft must have sensed to judge by his understanding expression and the way that he twined his fingers through Greg's and returned the pressure the DI had given him.

"He's _not_ going to go along with your plan, My," the DI sighed.

"I _hardly_ think his _permission_ will be _necessary_ in this instance."

"_Really_?" Greg asked, dubious in the extreme. He was already imaging (in excruciatingly vivid detail) the battle of wills that would result from the barest suggestion of this proposal.

"Sherlock has, as far as _I_ am concerned, _relinquished_ his ability to make _autonomous_ decisions as an _adult_ until such time as begins to _behave_ like one," he paused, evaluating Greg and making certain that they were on the same side in this. Greg simply waited for Mycroft to continue, knowing that the arguments he was making were driven by fear, but not unreasonable all things considered, "As his _parental_ unit, _we_ have the right and _responsibility_ to _monitor_ his decisions until such time that he can be trusted to make _sane_ judgments on his own…if that moment _ever_ arrives, which, I think, is an _entirely_ optimistic, if not _foolhardy_, assumption given the current level of—"

"My," Greg implored, "the point."

His partner reigned in his diatribe quite considerately, "The _point_ is that we are putting a GPS in him before we send him to a _rehabilitation_ facility."

Greg nodded tightly, "It's not me you have to convince of this plan, My," he agreed.

"I suppose _you_ would _prefer_ it if we _conferred_ with my _brother_ before making any concrete decisions," he suggested with a certain indulgence he reserved for Greg whenever the man decided that agency was important.

"You've already planned it all out then, haven't you? Down to the detail?" The DI inquired, wondering now, when in the bloody hell that Mycroft had had time to do that between his conversation (if you could call it that) with Sherlock last night and waking up this morning. The only thing he could come up with, short of Mycroft conducting all the necessary calls and emails required to make this arrangement while he was asleep, was that his partner had enacted this scheme while Greg had finalized Sherlock's first aid, and Mycroft had attempted to cool down, or, it appeared, prepared a Plan B.

Mycroft smiled tightly and enigmatically, strain shining through around his eyes, "I prefer to be _prepared_ insofar as _possible_, Gregory."

Greg smiled gently, encouragingly, leaning back to cup Mycroft's cheek and plant a soft kiss on his mouth, rubbing his thumb gently beneath Mycroft's eye as he pulled back, "I know you do, My. Let's just talk to him before you ship him off, all right?"

Mycroft's mouth thinned significantly, but he inclined his head in assent, "If you would _like_, Gregory."

"I would."

"Very _well_."

They sat in silence for a moment. It would seem, judging by the quiet in the flat, that Sherlock was not awake yet, not that Greg was necessarily surprised. The consulting detective had been completely out of it last night, and it would be a slow climb to full consciousness this morning regardless of the circumstances. The DI didn't regret that one bit. It gave him more time to prepare himself for the coming storm, to fortify his nerves in any and all ways possible.

"Why don't you take a shower," he suggested to Mycroft, "wake up a bit," Greg did know what a foolish request that was, given that Mycroft was more or less awake while sleeping, and, when he woke fully, he was immediately awake, alert, and fully-charged, mind working at full power without delay, "yeah, all right, I _know_," they both smiled, "I'll make us some breakfast."

"That would be _lovely_," Mycroft sighed and he sounded genuinely pleased at the prospect of freshly brewed tea and whatever Greg chose to provide in the way of sustenance. He kissed Greg on the forehead, like a benediction, and then on the mouth, before shooing him from the bed, with a brusque flapping gesture.

"If you would like for us to have a _family_ discussion, I suggest that we move a bit more quickly to _intervene_ before Sherlock can take matters into his own _disastrous_ hands once again."

"He's gotta still be asleep, My," Greg inferred, now beginning to doubt himself, "He was in bad shape last night and it's bloody quiet…" the DI trailed off.

"Are you _quite_ certain?" Mycroft inquired as he rose to his feet and pulled on his dressing gown.

"Fuck," Greg said, darting from the room, followed by the echo of Mycroft's ironic laugh.

Greg made a very darkly comic picture when he skidded to a halt in the sitting room, rumpled t-shirt, hair sticking straight up on his head, wearing only one sock, and with a manic air of desperation, frustration, and annoyance.

"_Fuck_," he said again, this time, with feeling. The sofa upon which Sherlock had slept was empty, blankets askew, pillow on the floor.

_That god forsaken bloody __idiot__. I __swear__ if he has left again I will __murder__ him myself. That's it. Mycroft is allowed to implant a tracker on him consent or not, this is bloody __bollocks__. _He continued his internal diatribe as he walked into the kitchen, opening cabinets, roughly grabbing the things that he needed from them before shoving them closed again. Occasionally, some of his thoughts would spill out of his mouth in the form of muttered curses against consulting detectives everywhere. Above all, Greg was concerned that Sherlock had unleashed himself on the world right now. What if he didn't return right away? What if he had disappeared last night while he was still injured? They still didn't know how he had acquired those cuts on his face or the drugs…what if he fell into the same situation? What if, and this was far too likely, he got himself into trouble and neither Greg, nor Mycroft, and especially not John was was able to help him?

"God _damn_ it, Sherlock," Greg swore as he worked off his nervous energy by bustling about the kitchen, making scones, brewing tea, brewing himself a cup of the strongest coffee that they had available in the cupboard. He slammed jars of jam and clotted cream on the table, which he also set with plates, cutlery, and glasses (three places just in case. _He had better bloody be home for breakfast or so help me_…). He made fresh squeezed orange juice squeezing each fruit like it had personally wronged him (there was only _ever_ freshly squeezed juice in the house when Greg was in a _horrible_ mood). He prepared a large bowl of cut fruit (with which he had viciously wielded the knife). When he had finished, there was nothing to do but scrub the counter tops as if they were dirtier than the darkest drug den in London and viciously open and close the drawers with anger.

By the time that Mycroft walked into the kitchen, Greg had worked himself into a considerable state. His partner took one look at his harried expression and smiled gently, compassion and an apology for the accuracy of his prediction written across his contrite face.

"Scones?" he asked cautiously, it was a litmus test question, determining how very stable or unstable Greg was at present.

The DI, who had been leaning over the sink in an attitude of defeat, turned to face Mycroft, whose hair was still damp from the shower and who was dressed in relaxed clothing and button down that Greg was certain belonged to him, and his stony expression just crumpled.

"You were right," he grit out.

Mycroft's mouth twisted with regret, "_Gregory_, I am _so_ very—"

The DI crossed the room in a no more than three strides, and Mycroft enveloped him in his strong wiry arms, shushing him quietly while the DI grumbled against his shoulder. After a moment or two, Greg pulled back from the embrace. Mycroft kept his hands on Greg's biceps, scrutinizing his face quite closely.

"All _right_?" he asked, dragging a strained smile from Greg, who always found it amusing to hear his own words come from Mycroft refined linguistic palate.

He nodded just as the timer dinged softly in the background.

"That'll be the scones," he said.

Mycroft grinned tightly, but mischievously, "Well, _heaven_ forbid that we should keep them _waiting_."

As Greg bustled about the oven, Mycroft poured them both cups of tea and began fixing them appropriately. The two had a rhythm in the mornings when they were both home and they fell into it despite the desperate nature of current events.

By the time they were both sitting with scones, fruit, and tea there was a certain degree of peace and familiarity in the air, though an underlying tension remained. They were waiting for Sherlock, who may or may not appear.

"He damn well better," Greg muttered as he sipped his tea. Mycroft didn't _say_ anything, but Greg could hear the underlying "if we had already _implemented_ my plan, we would not presently be having this _issue_," floating in the air between them. He sighed, "_Fine_, all right? You're bloody _right_. And if he doesn't show up I will hunt him down _myself_."

"The _scones_ are positively _delicious_," was all that Mycroft said in response.

It was five minutes later as they were mapping out the possible locations that Sherlock might be and debating whether or not calling John was a feasible option at this point or if they had recourse to alternatives when they heard the front door slam. Greg nearly leapt from his seat, but Mycroft gave a sharp shake of his head and he settled down quickly. The two of them acting casual but also donning their most serious expressions. It was questionable whose countenance was more severe in that moment.

After briefly wavering on the threshold, Sherlock strolled into the kitchen as if there were nothing out of the ordinary upon which to comment.

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft said, all cold elegance, as he gestured towards the pristine place setting to his immediate right, "so _kind _of you to grace us with your _presence_. _Do_ join us for our morning repast, _won't_ you? Gregory has prepared a _delightful_ spread."

Greg was quite certain that the evil queen in the fairy stories had used that precise tone of voice when offering young damsels poisoned apples and he didn't blame Sherlock for vacillating suspiciously.

Never-the-less, Greg addressed the young man firmly, "Sherlock," he demanded clearly, "sit."

The consulting detective looked between his brother and Greg and, perhaps deducing the severity of their anger, promptly dropped himself into the indicated place at the table. Mycroft poured him a glass of juice, Greg passed him a cup of tea, both men took in the young man's pallor, against which blue and purple bruises blossomed like flowers. His eyes were overly bright. Though he still wore his bandages, his cheek, arm, and lip were noticeably more swollen. He looked like he was recovering simultaneously from a bout of flu and the losing end of intense hand to hand combat. The latter might even be true.

"We'll need to get you some ice," Greg commented, while Sherlock idly stirred milk into his tea, and Mycroft watched his brother with concern and hostility, "and change those dressings."

Sherlock appeared to be ignoring him. He took a delicate sip of his tea. Mycroft placed a plate loaded with fresh fruit and a scone spread with raspberry jam in front of his brother.

"_Eat_ it, Sherlock," he ordered primly, reminding Greg suddenly of a nanny with an exceedingly recalcitrant charge.

Sherlock was not apparently so inclined, "I am _not_ hungry," he said.

"I don't bloody care, you look horrible and you're going to eat something," Greg observed.

"And _then_," Mycroft added, "we are going to have a positively _delightful_ chat," based on his tone, it was going to be anything but delightful.

Sherlock recognized that he was outnumbered. He sighed heavily, sensing how much trouble he was in, nibbling the edge of his scone and popping several berries into his mouth, chewing carefully, taking another sip of tea, and looking at Greg and Mycroft as if to say, "See? I've eaten something. Are you happy now?" _God protect me from thirty year olds who behave as if they're fourteen_.

"What would you like to discuss?" he asked guilelessly.

"Do not play _dumb_, Sherlock," Mycroft spat, "It does not suit you in the _least_."

"How about we discuss how long you've been using for a start?"

"We can _promptly_ succeed that with '_how_ did you come by those _injuries_?'"

"And let's not forget the, ever important, _what the bloody hell were you thinking_?"

"You many answer in whatever _order_ you would _prefer_, provided that you give _adequate_ explanations," Mycroft allowed.

"Anytime you're ready," Greg suggested.

Then the two paused, waiting, as they squared off against Sherlock, who had no choice but to respond.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 18. What did you think? Likes? Dislikes? If you get the chance, please leave a review! _

_I thought this was going to actually be the conversation the three of them had the following morning. The muse had other plans. I believe her exact response was, "Haha…no." _

_Next chapter should be up by Wednesday (during which we shall get __some__ explanation from Sherlock), until then, I'd love to hear what you think of this most recent installment._

_Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following, I swear, I have the best readers ever. I love you guys. _


	19. Confrontations

"_Well_," Mycroft drew out the word with emphatic impatience. It had been five minutes of silence and he was the first to speak. Sherlock was categorically ignoring all of Greg and Mycroft's questions in favor of observing his tea cup fixedly.

"Well, _what_?" the younger Holmes spat impatiently. Sherlock apparently considered this conversation to be far too blasé and unnecessary to merit the effort it would take to converse. In fact, his disdainful scowl indicated quite clearly (to Greg at least, he couldn't speak for Mycroft) that Sherlock found this experience trying, unproductive, and utterly beneath him. That he should be called to question for his recent behaviors was absurd. Especially in light of their larger _goal_ (_as he is always so bloody kind to remind us_, Greg thought somewhat guiltily), which was not being furthered in any way by his continued forced presence at an awkward familial altercation over breakfast of all things (Greg could hear the scathing sarcasm loud and clear in his crinkled upturned nose and the cold shifty eyes). _Well, if you can't bloody take care of yourself, I don't see how you're likely to take care of John at all, you stupid ponce_, he ranted internally. It was true, and he would file it away for a later part in the conversation. Unlike a certain pair of brothers he knew, Greg preferred to use his refutations and offensive maneuvers once the argument had actually started. _Although_, he mused, _you might say that this argument has been going on for months now. High time we have a resolution…if we can._

Mycroft was taking great pains to maintain an outward appearance of calm, although, Greg was sure, he was internally contemplating the best way to have Sherlock murdered. He had that "evil genius smiting" gleam in his eye.

"You know _perfectly_ well _what_," he said with dangerous politeness, "_now_ will you answer our questions _willingly_ or will I have to _force_ you?"

Greg shook his head as Sherlock scoffed, "I would like to see you _try_."

"Enough," the DI said before Mycroft could reply. He laid his hand on Mycroft's forearm and squeezed briefly, "Now, Sherlock," _God_, he reflected with an inner grimace, _I have become my mother_, "we are worried about you. You come in here bloodied up, completely under the influence, after three weeks, _weeks_, Sherlock, with not a peep from you," he paused and he was quite certain that his face had reshaped it itself into a fair impression of the "I am so disappointed in you that I can hardly stand it" expression that he had hated so much as an adolescent, that had never failed to make him feel miniscule and low. It was the best tool in his arsenal and he hoped that Sherlock would at least moderately react to it. "I think that you owe us an explanation," he paused and continued into the ensuing silence after only a minute, "_Now_."

Gregory Lestrade had had a great deal of experience with interrogation techniques. His expertise was part of his job and, interestingly, he could put it to good use in his home life (however much he would prefer it if that were not necessary). Sometimes the tried and true version was to appeal to the subject's better nature. Often, Greg found, his parental voice worked wonders. When he used this on Sherlock, though, it wasn't an act, or affected in any way, it was genuine concern for the boy, real disappointment, worry, fear, and love. Occasionally, Sherlock responded to this very well. Others, it would seem that he had no idea how to engage with Greg on that level. The DI chalked this up to a deplorable, and exceedingly sad, lack of experience with sincerely expressed concern. It was disheartening to have Sherlock shut down rather than open up. He hoped that this morning was not one of those instances.

Sherlock contemplated his scone. It was apparently an entirely fascinating specimen of baked good. If Sherlock started to expound upon its various merits in relation to other bakery items, Greg was going to have to put his foot down. Distraction by way of inundation of confusing and unproductive information was not going to work on him. Not today of all days.

Sherlock's icy green eyes darted between his brother and Greg, returned briefly to contemplating his (mostly uneaten) scone, and eventually settled somewhere over the oven. He took a breath and opened his mouth, "I assure you that your concern is completely misplaced. I am perfectly—"

"Sherlock," Greg cautioned, "so help me, if you say fine right now, I am going to completely lose it." They all understood this to mean that Greg would step back and let Mycroft do whatever the hell he wanted.

"And," Mycroft added with a warning lilt, "Gregory has been the _sole_ force on this earth staying my _hand_. Watch your _allies_, brother."

Sherlock, surprisingly, seemed to contemplate this with an air of someone pleasantly surprised by new information and attempting to discern the best way to use it to his advantage. If Greg gave Mycroft free reign on this issue, things would become significantly more difficult for Sherlock. He needed support from at least one corner in this battle. Whether or not he actually believed himself to be "fine" was entirely beside the point in his mind (_and the poor misguided sod probably actually believes that he is fine_. Greg could only shake his head at that particular lunacy. He would too, later, when he didn't have to present a stoic face). It was more about how Sherlock could, and should, shape his responses to get what he wanted. The consulting detective was known to adopt different personality masks, disguises, when it suited him. Greg could see right through them, so could Mycroft, and the degree to which the consulting detective tried to deploy these façades while he was around the couple was very miniscule. It expended extra energy in a futile pursuit. Nevertheless, desperate times clearly required desperate measures, as Sherlock morphed his face from one of inscrutable denial to innocent contrition. Greg felt a burgeoning desire to slam his own head against the table in a gesture of sheer frustration. Mycroft appeared to be fighting off the urge to leap across the table and strangle Sherlock (whether it was Greg's hand, which still rested comfortingly on his arm, or his own sense of principles and propriety that restrained him was unclear). Sherlock had reworked his features into an expression of sincerest apology and vulnerability (it never quite reached his eyes, that was the trick you see, once you realized that, the whole thing took on a strange macabre pageantry, watching icy eyes coupled with smiles, grimaces, sympathy, and tears. It was all rather absurd).

"You are both quite right, I," he took a deep fortifying breath as if fighting off an onslaught of tears, "I am quite clearly in dire straits. I desperately need your help and support at this crucial juncture. I don't know what I'd do without—"

"All right!" Greg exclaimed, "that's it. _Enough_. You're damn right but it would be a lot more—"

"_Gratifying_," supplied Mycroft readily.

"Thanks. That's right, it would be a lot more _gratifying_ if you weren't lying through your bloody teeth," Greg had had it with being gentle, "we are trying to have a _serious_ conversation because you _are not_ fine. Why don't you fucking grow up and talk to us without this god damn—"

"_Pretense_," Mycroft concluded.

"Exactly," Greg concurred, "So let's have it. What the fuck happened to you last night? How long have you been using? And how the ruddy hell can we _help you_?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but Greg interjected to make something perfectly clear before the younger man could hit his stride, "and if you say 'by leaving me alone' I will actually call Mycroft's goon squad myself and have them come in and detain you." Sherlock looked startled; Mycroft looked smug and relieved simultaneously to have Greg adopt this course of action. _Desperate times_, the DI noted.

In their "familial" conversations, it was typical for Greg to take the lead. This might come as a surprise to those not intimately acquainted with the pair. However, they had come to the conclusion long ago that Sherlock generally responded more productively to Greg than Mycroft. Perhaps it was his down to earth attitude, or his simplistic approach, or the lack of thirty plus years of emotional baggage. Whatever the reason, when Mycroft lead the charge, he and Sherlock inevitably began bickering like children, when Greg steered the conversation, they at least maintained a form of civility.

After Greg's pronouncement, or ultimatum, the three of them faced each other across the table. Finally, after five minutes in which Sherlock was clearly affronted by his own predictability and going through every potential conversation they could have in his head, he opted for the persona that would get him what he wanted in this situation: his own. Greg and Mycroft noted the exact moment in which the façade dropped from the younger man's face and he appeared tired, annoyed, and quite sickly. Like an abused puppy. _Shame most of it is bloody self-inflicted_, Greg ruminated sadly.

"Thank you for _joining_ us, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly.

"Let's have it," added Greg.

Sherlock looked at both of them dully, "I was involved in an altercation on my way here yesterday evening," he intoned, "I was unfortunately (and largely through my own over-confidence) injured in the process," he indicated his facial lacerations with one long fingered hand, which bore bruises on the knuckles, "I am, however, physically, well, largely thanks to Lestrade's ministrations, and my own rather prodigious medical skill. The delightful gentlemen with whom I was engaged are in far worse condition. I doubt they shall _ever_ fully recover."

Greg didn't doubt that statement. At all. This was a man who had dropped somone out of a window, repeatedly. Who played on the side of the angels when it suited him. Sometimes visiting heavenly justice upon others, Greg had learned, resulted in a little strategically deployed earthly violence.

Mycroft, of course, took an exceedingly pragmatic approach to his brother's response, "Did you dispose of the bodies?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if the question was not worthy of his attention and an insult to his considerable intelligence, "Of _course_, I disposed of the bodies, Mycroft. I have been at this for months. What do you take me for? A _fool_?"

"_Well_," Mycroft returned icily, "you will have to _excuse_ me if I say yes because, _honestly_, Sherlock, you did not seem to have the presence of _mind_ last night to even support yourself in a _seated_ _position_, let alone in the removal of _corpses_."

"Do you think that I was strolling about London in that state?" Sherlock was scandalized.

"I _think_ that you are not _inclined_ to let anyone _best_ you unless it is to your _advantage_," Mycroft stated carefully, "and I _fail_ to see how _any_ of these colorful _decorations_," he gestured towards the marks upon Sherlock's face, "are part of a plan in which you are attempting to _avoid_ attention."

"I would not have gone into a situation like that without a clear _head_," Sherlock argued firmly. He was livid at Mycroft's suggestion to the contrary.

"Sherlock," his brother said, almost gently, preparing for the disproportionate reaction and denial his comment was sure to produce, "You have not been _possessed_ of a _clear_ head in _quite_ a significant period of _time_."

Sherlock glared, nostrils flaring, spine stiffening as it always did whenever anyone made a reference to his less than adequate mental or emotional stability.

"Your brother has a point, mate," Greg added carefully, before this conversation could morph completely into a sibling spat, "You've been handling things really, er, poorly for months. Not that we blame you…"

"It is not _acceptable_," Mycroft said.

Greg nodded, "Which is My's way of saying that we've been out of our bloody minds with worry. You _cannot_ keep this up. We've gotta figure out something else."

Sherlock's face was locked down, "I will not be deterred from this."

"I do _not_ think that—" Mycroft began.

"Well you're not going off on your own to get beaten half to death," Greg said firmly, "_especially _if you're using again."

The ensuing silence was painful and fraught with tension.

"I am _not_ using," Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft and Greg in turn.

"Are you _quite _certain?" Mycroft inquired, "because, as far as I am _aware_, _morphine_ is considered a _drug_, Sherlock, which would indicate that you are abusing a _substance_."

"I did not _abuse_ anything, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed with rage, bristling at the merest suggestion. The denial was genuine, Greg could tell by the wrath in his eyes and the now reciprocated desire to leap across the table in order to commit fratricide. Although, Greg personally believed that Sherlock would be more inclined to deploy cutlery in his attack. The trouble with denial, of course, was that it was something that you felt, that you convinced yourself of, until you believed it genuinely. It was very hard, if not impossible to parse out the truth. Greg had seen people literally stab someone, knife still in hand, blood coating their fingers, saying that they hadn't done it because they couldn't face the reality of it. Sherlock had made a vow a _long_ time ago, largely at Greg's behest, at Mycroft's pleading, and of his own free will, to _not_ use again. And, as far as Greg knew, and he had always watched _very_ closely, the younger Holmes had kept his word. Even going so far as to avoid medications while injured because he was self-aware enough (mentally and physically) to recognize that the allure of oblivion would be exceptionally tempting to give up if once again found. That was why Greg was so disheartened. Even if Sherlock wasn't _technically_ using again, it was highly out of character for him to have accepted and given himself something for his pain when injured. _And, I mean, bloody morphine of all things?_ It was an extremely bad sign, particularly given that Sherlock had more reasons than normal to seek out that state of disconnect.

"Sherlock," Greg said, "I'm just asking you, all right? Before yesterday, when was the last time you took something?"

"I gave myself a dose—"

"An _over_ dose," Mycroft corrected, "because there was _far_ too much in your system for you to even _begin_ to see straight let alone—"

"My," Greg soothed, "let him finish."

"As I _said_, I self-administered morphine for pain given that I had significant injuries," Sherlock concluded.

"That didn't answer my question," Greg reprimanded lightly, feeling a sense of sadness wash over him. Sherlock's evasiveness was all the answer he needed really. Mycroft reversed Greg's grip on his arm, so that it was now the elder Holmes, holding Greg's hand, clutching his fingers tightly.

"I was _hurt_," Sherlock maintained, a bit manic, "what would you have had me _do_?" he asked.

Greg reached across the table, and Sherlock shifted farther back in his chair, crossing his arms stubbornly as he did so, rejecting Greg's appeal. The DI sighed resignedly and retreated back, "Sherlock, of all people, I understand that, all right?" he was not given a response aside from a steadily darkening scowl, "Neither of us," he gestured between Mycroft and himself, "wants you to be in pain…of any sort, okay, but this isn't like you."

"You have been acting in a most _peculiar_," Mycroft said calmly, "and unfortunately _familiar_ manner for several weeks now…"

"If there is a problem," Greg said, "You ought to tell us so that we can _do_ something about it…"

Mycroft took up the conversation again, "We _cannot_ have you putting yourself in a position of _vulnerability_ any more so than you already _are_—"

"I am not _vulnerable_," Sherlock spoke softly. It genuinely hurt to realize that he was entirely serious, so defensive in his denial that he seemed even younger and more fragile that he had originally.

"Look," Greg tried, "whether you want to admit it or not, you are. We want to help you, and you're going to have to let us."

"I do not _have_ to do anything."

"Oh, but you _do_, brother dearest," Mycroft countered, "because you are _not_ leaving this _flat_ until this has been properly _sorted_."

Greg nodded his assent, "If you don't want to tell us," he said, "the details, you don't have to, okay? But you're starting on a downward slope here, mate, and you need some help…"

Sherlock was about to protest, perhaps that he needed no help, that he could manage alone, that such things were for other, weaker, merely ordinary people, but Mycroft effectively cut him off.

"Losing _you_, Sherlock," he said, and it was as if he had allowed his own shields to drop and was facing his baby brother across the table, across years of closeness and betrayal, successes and mistakes, of distance and hurt and regret, but laid bare. Sherlock looked at Mycroft as if he had never seen him properly before. As if he didn't quite trust this imposter where his usually composed and clinical elder brother sat, "is _not_ an option. We will not _survive_ that."

Greg squeezed his hand, "And we're not going to have to, because you are going to get cleaned up before you leave here again."

Sherlock was still staring at Mycroft, dumb-founded. It made Greg feel heartsick to realize anew that Sherlock couldn't see how much his brother truly loved and cared for him, so that when he was confronted with the reality of that affection, he couldn't even begin to process it. Greg knew how difficult it was for Mycroft to open himself up like this to Sherlock. He always feared the recrimination that he felt was his due. It was, however, apparently not forthcoming.

"I need—" Sherlock began stubbornly.

"What you _need_," Mycroft said, "and what you _want_ are two _separate_ entities at this point," Greg could not have agreed more, "we are going to take care of the _former_ before you continue in your pursuit of the _latter_." Greg was impressed that Mycroft was even talking about allowing Sherlock to continue on with this plan of his, perhaps he realized how foundational this was for Sherlock.

"But John—" the consulting detective started again.

"John will be _fine_," Mycroft said firmly, and Greg was glad that My fielded that one because he himself had some serious doubts on that score, "you will be of _absolutely_ no use to John if you get yourself _killed_ out of sheer _obduracy_ and _foolishness_. Where will John be _then_? I ask you."

Sherlock's jaw locked, choking down emotions, guilt, worry, the fact that Mycroft was _right_.

"This isn't just about John either," Greg added, "we're worried for you. My old heart can't take this and neither can your brother's nerves…we need to focus on making sure that _you_ are all right. You're bloody important, idiot."

They sat in silence facing each other. Thinking, reflecting, Greg could see the exact moment in which Sherlock reached his decision.

"Very well," he said quietly. Greg and Mycroft sighed in unison and the three began to set a plan in motion.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter IX. What did you think? I hope that it was worth the wait and would love to hear your comments._

_Thank you everyone for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following this story. You are all amazing! Please, review if you get the chance. New Chapter by Saturday at the latest. _

_Much love._


	20. Recuperation

And so it was that they came to an arrangement. Sherlock would stay to recuperate with them. He refused to reveal the exact amount of time that he had been using, but it didn't do to take chances. Mycroft had initially maintained that a month was necessary at the outset. Sherlock stubbornly refuted this claim, arguing that two days would be more than adequate. Greg suggested that they have a physician examine the extent of Sherlock's injuries and his morphine dependency before they came to any sort of conclusion.

As this was the most rational decision, Mycroft quickly stood behind it. He believed wholeheartedly that the physician would support his estimate. Though, given that Mycroft was going to arrange to have _his_ personal doctor, who had been sworn to the most extreme discretion and secrecy (which he had ensured through a variety of means that he refused to reveal and Greg deduced were highly questionable, though undoubtedly effective), he had something of an unfair advantage. Sherlock, when faced, twice in fewer than twenty-four hours, with the combined efforts of Greg and Mycroft, had no choice but unleash a disdainfully long suffering "_Fine_," before agreeing to submit to this course of action.

Sherlock complained a great deal while under examination. He did not make it easy for the good doctor (a tall, skeletally thin man with a serious expression who was referred to as Dr. X for "security reasons"), complaining constantly and encouraging him to release him from his brother's custody as quickly as possible (all while critiquing the man on all of his qualifications). It was fortunate that the Dr. X seemed entirely unflappable to both Sherlock's pleas and his criticisms. Mycroft, on the other hand, insisted on overseeing the proceedings, much to Sherlock's dismay, and argued for a long convalescence, repeatedly mentioning several clandestine facilities for rehabilitation to which he could easily refer his brother.

Subsequently, Dr. X spent the afternoon caught between Sherlock's hostile glares and Mycroft's superior smirks. Greg, having found himself in that position many times, could speak to the man's discomfort. He, however, merely wished the three of them luck and absented himself from the study with a heartfelt invocation to, "play nicely," when he heard his mobile ring. Thankfully the three were already engaged in a strange (and undoubtedly _fascinating_) conversation regarding wrist fractures. Sherlock was wholly invested in the particular fractal patterns caused by high-velocity impacts, and the physician's responses appeared to impress him. Greg absented himself without notice. _And a fun conversation it shall be_.

"Hello," he answered, upon reaching the sitting room where the voices echoing from the behind the closed door of the study could no longer be heard.

"Hi, Greg," John Watson returned.

"Is everything all right?" Greg asked. His typical response to a phone call was more commonly "what's going on?" or "How's it going?" but Greg had had a long day and night and, seriously, he might as well start off getting through the worst of it.

"Yeah, it's all fine," John replied; Greg could hear him rummaging with something in the background, "just making some tea. What are you up to?"

Greg glanced back down the corridor, where he knew that Sherlock and Mycroft were engaged in hostile negotiations (he rather hoped that the physician was as sternly composed as he appeared) before responding, "Not much, you know, er, just taking the day off. My's back from Colombia."

"Is he?"

"Yeah, got home a few days ago," Greg said, flopping onto the sofa upon which Sherlock had slept the night before, throwing his head back, and massaging his eyes with his free hand.

"Behaving himself?" John asked startling an unexpected chuckle from Greg at the irony. It had become something of a tradition for Greg and John to evaluate the relative outlandish and eccentric behaviors of Mycroft and Sherlock (preferably over a pint). _God it's been a while since we've done that_.

Shortly after realizing that John and Sherlock were sharing a flat, the DI had taken pity on the army-doctor's harried look one day at a crime scene. Greg knew that expression. It was the "I am living with someone who is completely mental" face. Greg wore it frequently.

"Giving you a hard time is he?" he had asked John.

The blogger had stared at Greg with an annoyed expression, "There was a severed human _head_ in the fridge this morning."

The DI had laughed. _Classic Sherlock_. "Yeah, well, he, uh, does that."

"Yeah, I got that, thanks," John had smiled a bit ruefully.

"That's _nothing_, John," Greg had offered, "Believe me. Yesterday, Mycroft—" Greg glanced around at the forensics team, packing it in for the day, and the misty drizzle that continued to rain down from the sky, "Do you want to get a pint? There's a pub down the road."

"God, yes," the blogger had returned, buttoning his coat still further, "So what happened?"

And so it began. Greg wouldn't go so far as calling those evenings a _competition_ per say. But the two would exchange stories, some of which overlapped (that is, John would tell Greg "Mycroft kidnapped me from the side of the road on Tuesday" and Greg would return with "Yeah, well, when you were at the surgery on Thursday, Sherlock 'borrowed' five human hearts from the mortuary," "I know, they're currently being cross sectioned in _my_ kitchen"). Whoever had the most outlandish story won, and the loser would pay for drinks. They were regulars at the pub once a week.

It had been a generally enjoyable chance to relax and reflect upon the crazy characters that were fixed at the relative centers of their lives. Sometimes it was better to laugh with someone about the fact that Mycroft thought it would be a good idea to fly in a botanical expert from Greece to give Greg a tutorial on proper garden care, which resulted in a very unpleasant afternoon during the worst heat-wave they'd had in a decade, attempting to understand a single word that the professional had had to say. He had also realized with disturbing clarity that there were several poisonous shrubs in dangerous proximity to Greg's tomatoes. John found it cathartic to tell Greg that Sherlock had decided that going cold turkey for cigarettes was a good idea, had reneged on the idea after two days, and was tearing the flat apart in search of his emergency stash. Greg and John became good friends, laughing, joking, and commiserating.

They hadn't had a conversation like that since Sherlock had "died." There was bad blood between the elder Holmes and the noted blogger. The only time that John acknowledged Mycroft's existence was when he called or texted Greg with a complaint ("would you please get _him_ the bloody hell out of my flat!" "He is here again!" "Greg, this is ridiculous! This is the third time in two weeks he's shown up in my bloody kitchen!"). It was a bit of a relief to hear John talking in an upbeat manner. Asking if Mycroft was "behaving himself" was a good sign. Greg felt himself grinning like an idiot. He'd missed his friend.

"Greg?" John prompted the DI, pulling him back from his reminiscences, "You there?"

"Yeah," he answered, "just had a long night."

"Bit too much information, mate."

"Ha bloody ha."

"So everything is all right with you then?" John asked.

"Yeah," Greg responded, "We're all right. Mycroft brought back some of those coffee beans I like," there was a strange crashing noise that resounded down the corridor and Greg recoiled slightly, "but, you know, business as usual."

"Right," John sounded dubious, "I just, ah, wanted to check in I suppose. Make sure you're okay. I know this, um, _thing_ can't be easy for you either."

Greg nodded. If only John knew the half of it. _Greg_, he reminded himself_, John is in worse straits than you are_. _At least you know what's going on…however annoying it might be._ "Honestly, it's been…it's still pretty damn hard, but we're managing. You know, as best we can, I guess…"

"Right."

"Yeah."

A long pause ensued. It was easier to good naturedly complain about Sherlock and Mycroft than it was to express sentiments like grief, sadness, camaraderie, even gratitude, especially over the phone. Greg didn't think that John had any idea how very much the DI appreciated having someone to take care of and worry after through this ordeal. Though he was often annoyed and bordering on curmudgeonly, John appreciated having Greg (and yes, even Mycroft) looking in on him.

"So," Greg said, clearing his throat with purpose.

"So. Want to get a drink this weekend?" John asked; steering things back to neutral territory.

Greg was pleasantly surprised by the offer, "You sure that you're up for that, John?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"Eh, probably not, but it might do me good to get out a bit…" he paused, and Greg rather thought that he had taken a sip of tea as a form of punctuation, "get out of my own head for a night…"

Greg could understand that all too well.

"Of course, yeah," Greg said. Mycroft and Sherlock had made it thirty odd years without murdering one another. Presumably they could, after all, survive an evening without Greg acting as a mediator. "I'll meet you tomorrow, yeah?"

"All right."

After saying goodbye, Greg sat on the sofa for a few moments more. A nap sounded absolutely fantastic. Instead, he gritted his teeth, got to his feet, and walked down the hall.

He knocked on the door to the study and pushed the door open without waiting for a response. Doctor X nodded at Greg on his way out. Sherlock was perched on the edge of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft was standing near the book shelves. Both faces swiveled to meet Greg when he came into the room.

"So, uh, did I miss anything?" he asked tentatively.

"With whom were you speaking with?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock scoffed, "Clearly he was talking with John."

"How did you—" Greg began. As soon as the question came out of his mouth, he was not completely sure why he bothered asking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You would not look as 'shifty' about a call from anyone else. Nor would you have left in the middle of this _unnecessary_ appointment."

"_Entirely_ necessary," Mycroft corrected.

"_Please_," Sherlock derided, "You're going to trust the opinions of that completely idiotic—"

"Sherlock," Mycroft countered, "need I remind you that that "idiotic buffoon" has no fewer than _five _medical degrees from top institutions and that you have _none_? Under other circumstances, I would agree with you, but this gentleman has been vetted by me, _personally_, and so we shall trust _his_ medical opinions over yours."

"What did he have to say?" Greg interrupted.

"Oh, the _standard_ diagnosis," began Mycroft, "he maintains that Sherlock—"

"'Suffers from malnutrition, sleep deprivation, several lacerations (of which you are already aware), a fractured wrist, and a noted _lack_ of drug dependency,'" Sherlock said, mockingly from his seat. Greg noticed the wrapping on his right wrist that had not been there earlier. The doctor also seemed to have changed the consulting detective's other dressings.

"So the usual then?" Greg inquired.

Sherlock's face crinkled with disdain, "He was an _idiot_."

"Sherlock has _never_ liked physicians," Mycroft added patronizingly.

"Mycroft, stop being such a child," Sherlock retorted with a long-suffering sigh, "I did not dislike them; I merely did not trust their abilities to make accurate diagnoses. I was far more qualified to do so."

"You were _nine_," Mycroft admonished only halfheartedly. Greg secretly (okay, he was actually quite open about it) believed that Mycroft thought Sherlock could have made a more accurate deduction about his own health than any _ordinary_ physician could, even (and particularly) at such a young age.

"I was more intelligent and better equipped to make medical deductions," Sherlock corrected, with a simple shrug in acknowledgement of his own intellectual prowess.

"In _fact_," Mycroft continued, undeterred, "until Sherlock met our own _dear_ doctor Watson, I feared that my dear brother had long harbored a pointed _phobia_ of physicians from which he would _never_ fully recover."

Sherlock glared at his brother.

"Fortunate for us that John Watson broke you of _that_ particular sentiment," Mycroft was smirking, Sherlock was glaring, and Greg decided that he must have missed something earlier while he had left the room. Mycroft was intentionally ruffling Sherlock's feathers. He was doing it properly, too. The consulting detective looked every inch the annoyed younger brother.

"We really are," Greg said, and both Holmeses, who until this moment seemed to have forgotten Greg was still in the room, turned to face him confusedly, "Er, that is to say that we're lucky that Sherlock met John."

"_Quite_," Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock didn't say anything; in fact, he looked suddenly reflective and not a little sad. Greg decided to switch topics

"So what's the treatment plan, then?" He wasn't sure if he ought to actually check with the physician himself.

To his amusement, both Holmes rolled their eyes in simultaneous annoyance. Greg wisely refrained from laughing.

"The _doctor_ with his impressive 'credentials' believes that I should rest for a period of two weeks, during which time I am supposed to eat and sleep in prodigious quantities," Sherlock looked like he would prefer having multiple root canals, "I cannot think of a more tediously unnecessary course of treatment."

Mycroft was annoyed for the opposite reason, "Regardless, you _will_ observe his instructions," an unspoken, "however annoying they may be," hovered in the air, "as per our _arrangement_."

"Oh, for god's sake," Sherlock muttered.

"Eh," Greg added, "It's not all bad. You'll get a chance to rest," Sherlock looked incredulous, "eat something, like you know, food, and recharge," Sherlock glared at Greg as if he had taken leave of his senses. There was disgust and concern mingled in his stare.

"Oh, come off it," Greg said, "It won't be that _horrible_."

"We are not your _gaolers_," Mycroft added.

"No, more like your personal chef and nanny," Greg added to the consternation of both brothers.

"At least, you will also have a chance to allow your _mind_ to recuperate," Mycroft offered.

Sherlock sighed, "I will take the enforced opportunity to work on the case."

"That's the spirit," Greg encouraged.

Sherlock rose to his feet, "I will be in my room," Greg was turning towards Mycroft when Sherlock's head popped back into the study from the corridor, "Lestrade, do you, by any chance, happen to have sixteen meters of red string?"

"Red—?" Greg looked at Mycroft with confusion, "No, I don't think we do."

Sherlock nodded, "I will require precisely that amount." He paused thoughtfully, "Also, if you could procure for me a laptop—"

"There is a spare in the sitting room," Mycroft responded.

"—and fifty seven thumb tacks, I would greatly appreciate it." He vanished into the corridor, calling out, "I will also take the liberty of occupying the study on the second story."

"Why?" Greg asked.

"I imagine that he's going to make a complete _travesty_ of the upholstery," Mycroft lamented, "in his construction of an elaborate diagram."

Greg nodded, "I see…well, I suppose it's better than sitting about in a stupor?"

Mycroft laughed, "We shall see."

But Greg knew that he was secretly glad at Sherlock's return of focus.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 20! I cannot believe that we have come this far. I feel an overpowering desire to hug each and every one of you for sticking with me and this story! You are the absolute BEST! Thank you so much!_

_What did you think about this chapter? Please, leave a review if you can. _

_More soon!_


	21. Headquarters

Sherlock did not, as Mycroft had predicted, destroy the upholstery in the second study (which the household now referred to as "headquarters"). He did, however, create his own precious corner of meticulously organized chaos. Mycroft's fastidious decoration and organization had been eschewed in favor of a more eclectic arrangement. It involved a lot of things (newspaper clippings, pictures, surveillance photos, maps, seemingly insignificant advertisements and notes) being pinned to the walls, a system of intricately mapped diagrams, and the accumulation of stacks of papers, books, and files piled on any available surface (including, and especially) the floor. It was rather difficult to navigate your way through the room without doing an elaborate dance to avoid tripping and landing on your face.

Sherlock certainly put the red string and thumb tacks that Greg had procured to good use. Though the filing system didn't make much sense to Greg, he nevertheless understood that it was part of Sherlock's process and could be expounded upon at length by the consulting detective if requested. The room was, additionally, densely populated with smoke. Sherlock had unabashedly fallen off of the "smoke free" bandwagon and the smell of nicotine lingered cloyingly in the air. It never had the opportunity to dissipate as Sherlock steadily and constantly worked his way through carton after carton as he contemplated the next phase of his operation. The scent made Greg itch and his fingers twitched compulsively with a craving of his own.

The DI was sorely tempted. He provided cigarettes in exchange for the consumption of food. Apparently, Mycroft and Sherlock had agreed upon a trade system (since Sherlock was currently on a sort of lockdown). There were very specific food to cigarette ratios. Greg surmised that the nutritional value and amount of the food eaten were the largest earning factors: vegetables, fruits, and protein seemed to have the most value attributed to them. Greg was just happy to see that they had downgraded from morphine to nicotine and that Sherlock was actually living up to his end of the bargain. The younger Holmes absentmindedly ate the food that Greg laid out for him. He often had to remind Sherlock to eat and interrupt him from a very deep and thoughtful stupor to do so. The consulting detective spent a great deal of his recuperation time in his mind palace.

Greg had rather expected Mycroft to be upset (if not outraged0 at the state of the second study. This was, after all, the man who had once had what could only be referred to as a "complete bloody breakdown" (though Mycroft contested this categorization as an "unfounded and _highly_ exaggerated accusation") when Greg had accidentally spilled coffee all over the new cream colored arm chair in the sitting room. They had thereafter never purchased another light colored chair, sofa, loveseat, or carpet, which Greg felt was a disproportionate response to the situation, but he supported the decision if it meant that Mycroft would not fall into a fit of histrionics again. However, to his everlasting incredulity and delight (if not a bit of confusion), Mycroft seemed to be so happy and relieved to have Sherlock well within observational distance (practically under his thumb) that he had reacted most calmly and even beneficently to the wanton destruction of their home and furniture.

"As long as the damage remains _isolated_," he had affirmed magnanimously when Greg had questioned his ungrudging acceptance of Sherlock's newly instated aesthetic choices. Yeah, yeah, Greg knew that he ought to not look a gift horse (or an unfailingly generous and understanding Holmes) in the mouth, but he wanted to make absolutely sure that there was not some sort of strange passive aggressive retaliation or plan for vengeance in the offing. If Mycroft was in that sort of mood or frame of mind, Greg wanted to diffuse it immediately. An escalating sibling war was _not_ a good idea. _Ever_. Greg had survived only two of what he would classify as _genuine_ all-out wars between the brothers and it was a near thing both times. He was sure that he bore psychic scars from those events and was by no means eager to repeat the experience.

"After all," Mycroft continued, "I will have the room set to rights and perhaps _fumigated_ when Sherlock leaves us again." He paused and evaluated Greg through narrowed eyes, "And do not even _think_ about picking up a cigarette, Gregory," he additionally warned in response to what he apparently perceived as a hopeful gleam in his partner's eyes," you _know_ what your doctor said…" he cautioned, "besides which, I've carefully counted the number of cigarettes in this house."

Greg sighed; apparently allowances were not to be made for _everyone_ in this family.

Greg was due to meet John at the pub in an hour. Mycroft was using Greg's outing as an opportunity to catch up on some "work." Greg was under the impression that it had something to do with the upcoming election, but he wasn't clear on the details, and he really didn't want or need enlightenment (sometimes he slept better at night _not_ knowing exactly what it was that Mycroft was working on).

"Are you leaving then?" Mycroft intoned from the winged arm chair, which Greg suspected that his partner secretly thought of as his "throne." He was intently reading a large stack of papers in what appeared to be French.

"Yeah," Greg said, "You going to be all right?"

"Of course," Mycroft soothed, "Sherlock and I will be _perfectly_ fine for a few hours."

"I'll just pop my head in in before I meet, John," Greg leaned over and kissed Mycroft after pulling on his coat and scarf.

Mycroft disengaged from the materials he was working with long enough to return the gesture, resting a gentle hand on Greg's face and tapping his cheek lightly, "Do give John my _kindest_ regards."

"Will do," Greg replied.

He climbed the stairs and knocked softly on the door to Sherlock's base of operations.

"Sherlock," Greg called, "I'm coming in, all right?"

He pushed the door open to find Sherlock perched on the back of leather arm chair, staring at the web of information that he had carefully plotted on the wall. His fingers were steepled (it looked exceedingly peculiar given that one of his hands was in a cast), and he didn't acknowledge Greg's presence as the DI stepped into the room.

"Hello," Greg said tentatively, "You busy?"

"I am _thinking_," Sherlock responded.

_Of course you are_, Greg thought, though, aloud, he replied with, "Yeah, well, I'm heading out…Mycroft's going to be here, if you need anything. He's in his study working on something, but I, er, just wanted to make sure you were all set before I leave."

Sherlock didn't respond, so Greg continued somewhat uncertainly, "So are you, er all set? You don't need anything do you?" Greg did recognize that Sherlock was a grown man who didn't need to be cosseted like a toddler. Still, he couldn't help but worry about him; the concern he felt was a habit fully and inextricably ingrained on his personality. At the same time, as he hesitated in the in the second study among Sherlock's eccentric filing system and a consulting detective who was deep in thought and clearly did not wish to be disturbed, Greg could not necessarily determine how much of his desire for acknowledgement was a part of that innate parental feeling and how much was guilt. Greg _did_ feel guilty, you see. He was about to go and spend time with John, who Sherlock missed dearly and who was just beyond his reach. He was about to spend time with John to whose face he would be forced to lie about the fact that he had seen Sherlock mere minutes previously. He knew there were good reasons for these things, but it didn't necessarily make it any easier.

"You are being ridiculous," Sherlock accused with a trace of exasperated annoyance, "you are also distracting me whist I am _trying_ to concentrate."

_So much for checking in_, Greg thought ruefully, quickly followed by a feeling akin to happiness because Sherlock had just sounded so very much like his normal self: all focus, testiness, superiority, and arrogance. Totally, fixated on a case and unwilling to be distracted in any way. It was a heartening sign of progress.

"All right, I'll just leave you to it then…just, ah, try to not poison Mycroft before I get back," he said through a grin. He was only half joking.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock muttered, as he contemplated the wall before him, "I would not conspire to murder Mycroft with _poison_. It's far too predictable.

Greg waited a beat, tapping his foot, before Sherlock sighed heavily, "I shall, however, endeavor to restrain myself and keep Mycroft alive while you are out."

"Thanks, mate," Greg said drily, "I appreciate that."

Sherlock nodded. Greg felt relieved for a solid second. He was satisfied in the knowledge that Sherlock was a finally, at the very least, beginning to seem like the obstinate, ornery, arrogant, consumed young man that Greg knew and loved. That sense of relief, the slight alleviation of guilt was very brief because, just as Greg had reached the door knob and was about to step over the threshold, Sherlock emerged from his contemplations long enough to speak again.

"A moment before you leave, inspector," Sherlock continued staring at the elaborate chart/diagram/configuration on the wall before him, but his tone was sharp. Greg felt as if this revelation, interruption, question was not something that had just occurred to the consulting detective, but had been planned since before Greg entered the room.

"Course," Greg replied without hesitation. Trepidation came _after_ the word left his mouth, and he began to wonder exactly where Sherlock was going to go with this.

"There is a discrepancy in my filing," Sherlock said, as Greg canned the room, wide eyed and slightly incredulous that anyone could _possibly_ notice anything going amiss in such a complete and utter mess.

"Er," he offered honestly, "how can you tell?"

That comment earned him an eye roll and a look of annoyance. It said, clear as day, _of course I can tell when something goes missing. You are the unobservant one. Try to keep up, won't you?_

"I am concerned that several of my notebooks have gone missing," Sherlock gestured towards the bookcase where several volumes were conspicuously absent from the third shelf.

"Oh," Greg said flatly.

"Oh?" Sherlock inquired, as if the DI's response was, in and of itself, inadequate and incriminating. He turned to face Greg, and the two men stared at one another, clearly at cross purposes. Greg was not, and he really meant it, absolutely _not_, under any inducement, going to reveal to Sherlock the entire story of how those books had gone missing.

"I, ah," Greg's mind jumped, spinning wilding, trying to formulate the correct response, the innocent phrasing he needed, "I gave them to John."

Sherlock looked briefly taken aback, as if this explanation had honestly not occurred to him. Greg could tell by the look in his eyes that the consulting detective was attempting to discern the conditions under which such an exchange had taken place. Greg did not want Sherlock to go there because, quite honestly, Greg did not know, could not begin to comprehend, the repercussions of Sherlock discovering that John had contemplated, let alone attempted, suicide.

When Greg and Mycroft had discussed this, My had said rather fervently that the results of such information becoming known to his younger brother would be "unpleasant." Greg interpreted that word, accompanied by Mycroft's somewhat haunted look, as an extremely understated way of saying "cataclysmic." Sherlock was dangerous when the people he loved were imperiled. There were not limits on what he would do to protect or avenge them. Say what you would about the frosty exterior, Greg knew that somewhere under all the protective layers of ice and ennui there was a heart that loved fiercely and a sense of loyalty that boded ill for anyone who threatened those few people about whom Sherlock genuinely cared. The question was: what would happen to that wrath and that destructive energy in a situation where John had essentially threatened his own life and Sherlock's absence had been the cause? Greg would prefer it if he never found the answer, especially in light of recent events.

Greg knew that to avoid such a catastrophe he would have to manipulate the truth. The key, he recognized, to any good lie was to wrap it in some semblance of truth. Despite Greg's honestly policy (_doing a ruddy __brilliant__ job with that one, mate_), this situation required a careful construction of facts and misinformation.

"Why would you have given them to John?" Sherlock's tone was puzzled and accusatory, and his eyes were narrowed with suspicion, searching for the barest hint of a lie in Greg's expression or words.

"Well, he, ah, came by a few weeks ago," Greg attempted to maintain calm, to stay steady and earnest, and not give away any hint of the understatement of that sentence or the things that he was intentionally excluding. _He __was__ here a few weeks ago_, Greg told himself, _it's not a __lie_. _God damn it, I sound like Mycroft_.

"Why would he have come _here_?" Sherlock's face was pinched with something akin to disbelief.

"For tea?" Greg tried.

Sherlock harrumphed as if Greg had missed the point entirely. _I probably have_.

"No, _here_, this room, why would John have visited _my _room? There are quite a large quantity of other rooms in this house. It's not as if you and Mycroft were hosting a garden party in a bedroom. Why was John Watson in _here_, Lestrade?" Sherlock was impatient and critical, as if he could smell the misdirection in the air. Whether by tell or pure ability to read people, Sherlock knew something was off with Greg's narrative. The DI had one option: the truth, or at least a variation of it.

"He misses you," Greg stated clearly.

"What?" Sherlock was briefly sidetracked. Whatever response he had been expecting, this was not it.

Greg snorted, "Don't know if you've missed it, but John's still under the impression that you're _dead_."

Sherlock's mouth thinned to a harsh line, "Yes, thank you, I am aware of that," he gritted from between his teeth as if this fact, above all others, was painfully seared onto his brain.

"Well," Greg continued remorselessly, _no time for hesitation now_, "he came by for tea and he wandered in here while I was on the phone." This explanation was plausible enough for Sherlock to accept, "I found him a few minutes later and, er," Greg remembered all too well the very _real_ conversation that had ensued, "he said something about, ah, missing you and he asked about the notes and I said he could take them."

Sherlock was silent. His left hand clenched convulsively at the back of the sofa, but his face was mostly closed off.

"Did you?" he asked.

"Look," Greg continued, "he needed _something_"—_you've no idea how much_—"he's a mess"—_understatement of the decade that_—"he's, you know, _mourning_ you…he deserved something and that's the best I could do."

Sherlock nodded tightly, his mouth a thing line.

"I suppose that's reasonable," Sherlock allowed, turning back towards easier things, like taking down an international crime organization, pinning two newsprints to the wall, and connecting them with other points in the vast Moriarty collage that he had created.

"Better than Mycroft giving him some of those baby pictures he keeps locked away…" Greg said, trying for humor and falling horribly flat. Sherlock ignored the comment and seemed to have effectively ended the conversation.

Greg frowned, "Well I'm off then, good luck with all this."

Greg had almost left the room (he already had one foot in the corridor) when Sherlock stopped him again.

"Lestrade," he said without turning away from his present task, "Do tell John that…" his fingers stilled for a moment, "Do look after him, won't you."

"Of course, Sherlock," Greg said, reassuringly.

"Thank you," the consulting detective replied, and Greg could tell that he meant it sincerely.

"Anytime," Greg said as he closed the door behind him and headed out into the night.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 21! I'm so sorry for the delay, I have been sick for the past week. I got all your lovey reviews, which I maintain helped my recuperation process, so thank you!_

_I would love to hear what you thought of this installment, so please, leave a review if you can. More to come so! Much love._


	22. Living and Lies

By the time Greg arrived at the pub, he looked like he'd been through a fierce battle. Honestly. The whole point of walking had been to blow off some steam. Instead, it had had a strangely paradoxical effect. Greg had walked at a somewhat frantic pace, more or less continuously ruffling his hair. He caught his reflection in an illuminated shop front about two buildings down from the establishment where he was meeting John. _God, I look like shite_, he thought, sighing heavily and hastily organizing the messy spikes atop his head into some semblance of order. Mycroft always had better luck with that particular activity when it came to Greg's hair; of course, Mycroft also did a good job of putting it in a state of disorder in the first place. The philosophical part of Greg thought that might be some sort of metaphor for their relationship, but he didn't analyze the comparison too closely.

There was a time when meeting John was a relaxing affair. That was not the case tonight. Sherlock's recent "health scare" (Greg was calling it that in his head) had thrown the DI for quite a loop. He might take some photos and add them to a scrap book he was planning to start chronicling the events that occurred in the months following Sherlock's leap off the roof of St. Bart's. These particular pages would be emblazoned with "THE GREAT MORPHINE DEBACLE OF 2012." There would be absolutely no smiling faces, but it would be good for posterity. _Just think of the lessons to be learned. Number One: Do not fake your death; it has the potential to lead to depression, desperation, and insanity in yourself and those around you. Please see, figure 5a for pictographic evidence_. Greg snorted at his own joke.

All things considered, it was nothing short of a miracle that the DI had summoned the strength to go and sit with John and play pretend that things were all right. _Well_, he amended, _not that they were __all right__, more like that they were just a different version of fucking miserable_. Good times. His conversation with Sherlock had left the DI feeling guilty, anxious, and generally horrible. This wasn't necessarily a surprise by any stretch of his imagination.

Generally speaking, spending time with John made him feel more awful than anything else in the world at this point. There were very good reasons for that. John Watson was a living, breathing, walking, talking reminder of all the things for which Greg felt responsible. It was John's absence and distance that were forcing Sherlock farther and farther round the twist of obsession and borderline insanity. It was John's face that Greg had to lie to, pretending that Sherlock was dead. Basically, the army-doctor, Greg's good mate, was the person who was suffering the most horrifically, but couldn't be made to feel better without essentially leading to his death. _Nothing like the weight of crushing guilt and remorse to make for a light evening of fun and frivolity_. Oh, there was also the small fact that Greg had to act as if he too were in mourning and that Sherlock was dead. This facade opened up a horribly depressing wave of grief and complicated feelings associated with Greg's memories of the time when he had believed Sherlock to be dead (and the fears he tried to repress about the risk of Sherlock dying again, this time for real). _Lovely evening on the horizon. Lovely._

Greg took one last look in the window he was using as a mirror and sighed, _fuck it_. He crossed the street and walked into the pub (about ten minutes later than he was meant to).

It had a cheery sort of atmosphere, the décor mostly in dark greens, wood paneling, with plenty of sports memorabilia. It was rather small, but it was a popular local spot and usually full up. John and Greg had been regulars for quite some time, and they more or less reserved the proprietary right to a corner booth on the Thursdays that they frequented the establishment. When Greg walked in, he breathed a sigh of relief at the familiarity of the place. It was somewhat reassuring to know that, no matter how much everything else was changing and shifting dramatically out of control in his life, some things remained the same. If Greg had walked in to find frilly pink dollies, a tea service, and some fussy old lady at the door, he may have completely broken down on the threshold, cursing the fates, pulling his hair out in tufts, and screaming nonsense. Maybe. Thankfully that wasn't the case.

Matt, the proprietor, gave Greg a friendly wave from behind the bar as soon as he spotted him, and the DI returned the gesture with a nod and a smile. It was a busy night: there were mates discussing the most recent game, a group of businesswomen arguing about a client, a gaggle of young people flirting like their lives depended upon it, acting out some melancholy drama, there were the same old blokes that Greg was certain came in here every other night, sitting at the bar and spinning tales about the "good old days" to anyone who would listen as they commiserated their curmudgeonly tales of woe with one another. All was as it should be; the place even _smelled_ the same. Greg felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. _Familiarity is good, familiarity is nice_. He had experienced very little consistency in his life lately. Basically there were only two constants in his life. The first was that, regardless of the extremity of the situation, things was still completely mad, which was more or less par for the course at this stage in his life. _Granted_, he acknowledged silently with a slight frown, _it is significantly more mental than usual, but…_ The other constant was, of course, Mycroft, or had been Mycroft once they had resolved the whole "how could you fucking lie to me about this?" "because it was for your own protection!" argument (which, in all fairness, still came up occasionally, but with much less hostility and much more understanding on both sides).

Greg scanned the crowd, searching until he spotted a familiar figure seated at their standard table. John spotted Greg and waved him over.

"Good to see you, John," Greg greeted warmly, shaking the blogger's hand and then, realizing that was ridiculous, pulling him in for a tight, fleeting hug, before sliding into the seat opposite.

"How're you doing, Greg?" the blogger asked.

"All right, considering," he replied. _Good start, no out right lying yet. I __am__ all right, considering my week_, he patted himself (mentally of course) on the back, taking a sip of the pint John had already ordered for him.

"How about you?" Greg returned and, as he did so, he scanned John. The army doctor looked tired (_still not sleeping well then_), he was thin as a rail but not quite as gaunt as he had been a few weeks ago (_not eating __much__ but at the very least eating, and without me there to argue every bite_). It looked like John had recently gotten his hair cut and, though his jumper hung somewhat loosely on his frame, there was less of an air of complete wretchedness about him. He seemed more alert, more aware of his surroundings; he appeared less introspective, and Greg wondered if it was the fact that he was surrounded by people, had gotten out of the flat, or was somewhat on the mend. _Perhaps_, Greg considered hopefully_, it's all three._

John looked…well, to be honest, if Sherlock were wearing that expression Greg would have described it as "broody." Only, John wasn't much of a brooder, that wasn't his style. He was much more "let's focus on the problem at hand and get what needs to be done done and over with quickly." He didn't stew in melancholy fits and resort to drug use as an escape from his own head. At least, Greg really, truly, sincerely, honestly, hoped that he didn't because Sherlock's extracurricular activities were quite enough to be getting on with and dealing with both of them in such a state would absolutely, unequivocally cause Greg and Mycroft to go stark raving mad. Well, in all fairness, Greg would probably go mad, Mycroft would undoubtedly just snap and lose all restraint when it came to policing John and Sherlock's behaviors. Greg was, however, quite hopeful, that John realized that self-harm included drug abuse and therefore fell under their pact to not attempt to off himself. He really really hoped. _One is definitely enough per family_, Greg resolved.

He narrowed his eyes at John and ignored the fact that he was being very analytic (dare he think deductive?) about the blogger's health. Perhaps it was just a lingering aura of sadness hanging about his head. That would make perfect sense. You don't exactly completely recover from your best mate committing suicide right in front of your face in five months. Greg wasn't sure that you would ever really recover from that, but he was hoping that John wouldn't have to find out. Of course…in an ideal scenario, they were all going to discover what would happen when John discovered that said best mate was actually alive and had been lying to him (as had all of his other close friends), borderline stalking you, and getting up to all sorts of really serious mischief for the past five and so months. Greg took another, much needed, fortifying sip of his drink.

John grinned, it flashed brief and somewhat false, forced, disappearing as quickly as it had come. He was becoming adept at going through the motions, alternately feigning and hiding his emotions, "You know, ah, I've been all right?"

"Have you?" Greg countered. He realized quite suddenly what John's expression reminded him of. The John sitting before him most closely resembled the John that Greg had first met back when Watson and Holmes had just moved into 221B and hardly knew one another, when Sherlock had left the army-doctor stranded on that first crime scene, leaning heavily on his crutch and looking lost, walking with a psychosomatic limp and shadowed eyes. Tonight, John had that same look about him, haunted by demons, uncomfortable in his own skin, seething anger just below the surface, resentment both with himself and the circumstances that had brought him here. The sad truth was that this was an upgrade from the John that had come to stay with them just a few weeks ago. Greg could only hope that a certain consulting detective could hold it together long enough to shake John out of this (as best he could) quite soon.

John pursed his lips briefly, "Yeah, you know, I've been…" he hesitated a moment, then seemed to recall that he was talking to Greg, his friend Greg, who knew him pretty well, who had also been close with Sherlock, who _understood_ how completely fucked his life had become, who _honestly_ wasn't one of those arse-holes intent on asking John every five seconds if he was bloody "all right." He could be straight with Greg, "Honestly? I've been better," the blogger reflected for a moment, "I've been worse, too."

"I can relate to the feeling," Greg commiserated. Maybe not the same feeling, but perhaps, in their own ways, they had both come to some strange mid-point as far as their feelings towards Sherlock went. John was trying to balance his grief against attempting to rejoin (under duress or, at the very least, coercion) the living. Greg was coming to peace with the reality of the situation he was living, the lies and the danger and the deceit that were all so much a part of it.

"It's bloody awful," John admitted. Greg just nodded his assent.

John continued, "But, ah, Sarah's letting me work at the clinic, so there's that. Gets me out for a bit."

"How d'you like it then?"

John shrugged a bit, quick lift and release of his shoulders, "It's all right. Bit relaxing actually."

"Really?"

John grinned. It didn't last long, but there had been a slight upward twitch in the corners of his mouth, Greg was absolutely sure of it, "Well the patients are all right, generally. Nice to listen to other people complain about their problems and actually, well, ah, you know, have solutions sometimes."

Greg nodded solemnly. Having tangible results for work well done was fantastic.

"Bit routine too," John admitted, "but it's something to do." Greg couldn't tell if he missed the excitement (oh, who was he kidding, Greg _knew_ that John missed the way that Sherlock made him feel, dragging him through the city in the middle of the night) or if he was eager to avoid any further insanity in his life. He wasn't sure that John knew either.

"Well, John," he offered, "You know you're always welcome down at the Yard. You've got sharp eyes and you trained with the best. We'd be happy to have you."

John looked closely at Greg, evaluating the offer. After a moment, he realized that it was not driven by pity but a genuine desire for his help if he was willing.

"Thanks," he said slowly, "But, er, I don't think I'm quite ready for that…"

Greg respected his decision, "Course, John, you let me know when you are."

John nodded, "It's just a bit too much, well, about him, you know? Honestly, if one more fucking person gives me that look I swear I'll go mad."

"The look? What look?" Greg questioned, genuinely perplexed.

John grimaced, "The 'oh, poor sod was the friend of that fake genius detective' he must be so sad. 'Can't believe you were taken in by the lies.' 'Poor dear, you must be so heartbroken.' That look. I fucking hate that damn look."

Greg felt a good deal of solidarity with John in that moment, "Bloody idiots," Greg concurred heartily.

"Yeah," John's countenance darkened considerably, "I generally tell them to piss off…but, er, more fluently."

Greg guffawed slightly and then his expression shifted quickly into a grimace and a glare. He knew quite well the types of people that John was talking about. "They're idiots, John."

John nodded, brows furrowed, "Yeah, I know. Sherlock probably wouldn't even understand why I care so much about what they think—"

_Well,_ Greg thought, _technically, I'm pretty sure that he would be preening like a moron about it_.

"—but it's so damn annoying," John concluded, "I'm just bloody tired of it."

Greg agreed readily.

"So, er, I haven't seen Mycroft in a while," John switched gears. Greg couldn't help but notice that John had said Sherlock's name for the first time in weeks, "he's not broken into the flat for a good two weeks. How has he been?"

Greg had to think for a moment. It was necessary to closely ponder his response to this inquiry, "Well he hasn't started any wars recently," he offered, deadpan, "I don't know John. He's Mycroft, he's—"

"Not human?"

"Bit harsh, mate?"

"Sherlock had to have gotten it from somewhere."

"Fair point, I suppose," Greg conceded though he knew that both he and John were well aware of the Holmeses humanity and the strangely unorthodox ways in which they demonstrated it.

"Sorry," John offered conciliatorily.

Greg just shrugged, "He's Mycroft, y'know? He compensates by being a horror to his staff, redecorating the drawing room, and being even more obsessive than usual." _He's also, you know, neurotically trailing his erstwhile brother. Oh, wait, you __don't__ know about that, do you? You might be interested by the fact that Mycroft is, as we speak, either antagonizing or being antagonized by Sherlock, who is, actually staying with us for a bit. Sorry, I know it's a bit weird, but it was also necessary what with how he almost died two days ago. Yeah, I know, right? Morphine overdose, beaten to a pulp, wasn't pretty. Wouldn't have happened if you'd been around. Anyway…business as usual. Nothing to see at our flat. Nothing at all. Everything is fine. Abso-fucking-lutely fine._

"Greg?"

"Hm? Sorry what were you saying?" Greg was clutching his glass with such fervor that it was a wonder that it hadn't shattered under the pressure.

John's face was furrowed with confusion and concern. He offered, somewhat worriedly, "I was saying that that sounds a bit trying-?"

"Oh," Greg let out a huff of air, releasing his deal grip, and waving his free hand vaguely, "that's nothing—" _Sherlock turned up stoned the other night. We were worried that he'd been using so now he's under house arrest._ _He has a broken arm and Mycroft is creating an elaborate spreadsheet to ration cigarettes for food. _Of course, though that's what Greg was thinking, he could not, under any circumstances reveal the information to John. _Of course not_. He laughed out loud, a strangely high pitched manic chuckle, before clearing his throat purposefully. John was looking pointedly at Greg with his patented "what the bloody hell are you talking about?" face.

Greg continued, "Compared to, you know last week, when he er, had someone thrown out of a window," he added somewhat lamely.

"Really?" John was torn between resignation and humor.

"Yeah," Greg felt lightened as they began to steer the conversation away from the things that he couldn't say, "apparently the poor bastard said something 'offensive,'" Greg raised his eyebrows conspiratorially, "I only found out because Anthea let something slip when we rode into town last Wednesday."

"Jesus," John said, "was he all right?"

"Oh, yeah. 'Course. You know Mycroft, he bounces right back," Greg joked, drawing a laugh and a glare from John, "Oh, you mean the other bloke? Well, you know Mycroft, I'm sure he gave the agent a lovely vacation at the nearest hospital."

"Lovely," John said.

"Yeah," Greg added.

Things were better after that. They talked about this and that; how John was getting on at the clinic; the pick-up football team that Greg was playing with and that (he maintained firmly) John should join; the cases that had been big at the Yard (the question of whether or not John would come back to consulting anytime soon hung in the air). Things were easier between them than they had been in quite a while, and John's tone was, ironically, far less strained than Greg's. The specter of Sherlock hung in the air, a ghost that caused John's face to darken and Greg's guilt to rise. By the time the evening ended, Greg was tired, and he and John parted ways with a grudging promise on the part of the latter to at least come to the game on Saturday. John turned to walk home to a Sherlock-free flat. Greg walked back to a house overflowing with Holmeses. There was something heartbreaking and wrong about it.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_My dearest most faithful readers, I would like to wholeheartedly apologize for the complete lack of updates for such a long time. The unfortunate truth is that I have been really quite seriously ill. That, coupled with some family problems, made writing something of an impossibility. For that I am completely sorry. I am thankfully feeling better and will be updating more regularly from now on. _ _I just want to thank you for reading and (hopefully) sticking with me through my prolonged absence. You are truly the best._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please, leave a review if you get the chance. I promise to respond now that I've rejoined the land of the living. _

_Much love and more to come soon._


	23. A Broken Deal

For ten days now, Sherlock had conformed to the agreement he had made with Greg and Mycroft. Indeed, Greg harbored a secret belief that Mycroft had forced his younger brother to sign some sort of contract written in blood, so well did was he abiding by the terms of the deal. In defense of Greg's theory, there was absolutely no proof to either refute or confirm that some kind of arcane agreement had been reached in the dead of night.

Regardless of the forces holding Sherlock in check, Greg spent the young Holmes' recuperation torn between relief and fretfulness. For instance, the DI was rather elated to stumble across Sherlock being his typically eccentric self—talking aloud in empty rooms, using furniture in ways that manufactures, and certainly Mycroft, never intended, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, staring intently at the ceiling and making no sound at all for hours at a time. However, Greg also spent this period worrying. A new throbbing in his brain stabbed at him sharply every time that he caught Sherlock wandering about the flat, seemingly disconsolate and restless; each instance in which Mycroft and Sherlock became entangled in a heated verbal battle (never fewer than twice daily; they were apparently keeping themselves in good practice despite the fragile detente). Greg felt an all-consuming wrench of guilt twist his abdomen whenever he received a call or text from John. He felt a similar pain when he caught Mycroft's face in those rare moments when he dropped his outward superciliousness and allowed concern and worry show through; there was a defined wariness that flashed briefly from behind his carefully maintained mask of control and disdain.

The Yard was a refuge of sorts, but, even so, Greg was sharp, snappish, and frequently distracted. His colleagues followed his harried movements with worried eyes. One of the secretaries recommended that he speak with their designated therapist. Greg blinked at her a few times. If anyone else had suggest this, he would have been much sharper in his response, but Marjorie looked like someone's grandmother and so he thanked her kindly for her recommendation and dismissed her, while surveying everyone in the surrounding area with suspicion. How many others thought that he was losing his grip? His dark eyes, usually so warm, but worn colder with exhaustion and strain, glared warningly, daring anyone to comment.

Needless to say that Greg did not follow through on Marjorie's suggestion. Speaking with a therapist was not something that he could readily do, given the circumstances. In fact, it was a security risk of the highest order. Even if Mycroft and his team vetted a psychologist themselves, there was no guarantee of strict doctor/patient confidentiality. Mycroft had many enemies—_who was he trying to fool? They __all__ did_. Not to mention the fact that Mycroft's people spied on people for money. It didn't really prompt you to trust random strangers with your innermost turmoil. No, Greg would play it close to the vest. Chin up, forward ho.

He had other outlets. He went for long runs through the city. He spent an intensive day making croissants, banoffee pie, cherry tarts, and chocolate ganache. He couldn't stomach any of it himself, but Sherlock (whose sweet tooth was subjugated, but not above exerting its influence) occasionally meandered through the kitchen fetching something and eating it seemingly without any conscious effort. _At least someone was enjoying it_. Mycroft eyed Greg's manic baking with concern: the flour that liberally coated his lime green apron (a gift from Sherlock that Greg _still_ viewed with mild skepticism), the way that he attacked the dough with his rolling pin as if he had something to prove. There was a tell-tale narrowing of Mycroft's eyes as he looked on that left Greg's neck reddening and his shoulders crunching. Mycroft didn't eat anything. He simply nodded and either stood quietly in the corner observing or wandered out again, giving Greg his space. Greg was worried by the fact that Mycroft seemed to rarely consume anything beyond a strong cup of tea—or a large glass of brandy—lately. _People in glass houses, Greg_, he scolded himself, the amount of coffee he was drinking versus the distinct lack of food would probably result in the deterioration of the lining of his stomach at the rate he was going. Greg was no doctor, that was true, but he was rather sure that he was going to be given some sort of proscription for blood-pressure and ulcers the next time he visited a physician.

He played football on Saturday (rather aggressively, which was not his customary style). John came to the most recent match, as promised. The blogger didn't play: his leg, he said, had been bothering him lately. Instead, he joined Greg and his teammates for their after game lunch. The blogger was polite if quiet in the face of such boisterous spirits (they had won). He had the look of someone who felt more alone in company than in solitude. Greg suspected that John could clearly hear Sherlock's voice in his head, analyzing the footballers, spinning wild stories from their drink preferences and comments, and ultimately finding their team spirit and excitement over the animalistic ritualization that was organized sport incomprehensible, wasteful, and utterly foolish. The DI smiled faintly at the cold, sharp disdain that Sherlock would have held for everyone present excepting John and perhaps Greg himself. The DI was more subdued than usual after the match; it made a sharp contrast to the ferocity with which he had thrown himself into the game. His mates noted the difference, and, after a few rebuffed attempts to incorporate Greg and John into the banter, left the two more or less to themselves, which suited them both fine.

When Greg arrived home an hour later, he was tired, sweaty, sore, and rather disgruntled. His perpetual headache had not abated in the slightest.

Mycroft was waiting for him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms folded neatly across his chest.

Greg swiped at the hair that clung to his damp forehead. He offered a brief kiss to Mycroft's cheek by way of greeting, and smiled slightly at My's wrinkled nose. Dishevelment really wasn't his style, nor were physical sports of the team variety (Greg had it on good authority that Mycroft was an accomplished fencer). Though he occasionally enjoyed watching Greg's matches, he personally preferred games of the intellectual variety. He had made a career out of them, after all.

The DI poured himself a glass of water whilst Mycroft looked on in apparent fascination. Greg would not have though that his partner found hydration so interesting and he felt a brief fleeting fear that Sherlock must have tampered with the water, before deciding that Mycroft would not allow Greg to be a test subject in his own home. He took a large gulp and raised his brows in question. Mycroft proffered a steaming cup of coffee, offering it to Greg with a small smile.

"Thanks," the DI said, taking a sip, "Thought you were working today."

Mycroft shrugged: a gesture contrary to his nature. He, of course, deployed it with his typical dignity and grace. His shoulders tensed and released with nothing short of thespian grace. "I did. I was not so _very_ busy that I could not elect to take a moment to procure this for you."

Greg inhaled deeply, "Sumatran?" he queried, feeling more alive at the aroma.

Mycroft smirked there was both fondness and tightness in the expression. The result was a strained sort of grimace, the look you saw on someone who had recently undergone dental surgery. It was worrisome. "Would you accept anything less?"

Greg felt suspicion and a niggling sense of fear stirring somewhere along with gratitude, "My favorite," he smiled. There was tension in his jaw as he did so; the muscles in his cheeks were strained, tight with disuse. _I think I've forgotten how to do this_, he thought, _and how bloody pathetic is that_.

Mycroft raised his brows, "I know."

"Yeah," Greg returned, taking a sip. He could feel the beverage powering the synapses in his brain, "Yeah, I know that you know." It really was good."If you _didn't _know my favorite, we'd be having some serious problems," he waved an admonitory finger, "starting with when you'd been abducted by aliens and had your memory wiped." There was something familiar about the banter; it was like falling back into a well-worn groove, placing the needle onto his favorite song on an album. _Oh, I remember this_, he thought, yet even as he felt the familiarity and the _rightness_, there was an accompanying sense of foreboding. He wanted to pretend a moment longer, play the song until the record started to skip and crack, as he knew it would. He leaned his hip against the counter, facing Mycroft.

The elder Holmes' smile was sustained, though it still appeared forced. His gaze had softened and Greg knew that Mycroft was willing to prolong their illusion of calm domesticity. Whether this mutual denial boded good or ill was, at this point, widely debatable. "Oh, please, Gregory, you know that I have a certain portion of my mind devoted _entirely_ to minutiae concerning yourself." He paused, "Not _everyone_ is afforded such a privilege…"

"Well, I certainly hope not," Greg grinned. _I need to practice this_, he surmised, _five minutes a day in the bathroom mirror, smiling_. Perhaps that would ease the ache in his cheeks.

"…and as far as _extraterrestrials _are concerned—"

"My?"

"Yes?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd really rather not know."

"Of course," Mycroft seemed to be wondering why Gregory didn't want to be made privy confidential information regarding interplanetary relations. He changed the subject, "Is the coffee to your liking?"

"Mhmm…" Greg savored another sip, "You know it is."

"I'm so _pleased_" he looked it too, as pleased as any of them looked these days. A small tender smile that he seemed to reserve for Greg alone, formed on his mouth. It was not ironic or cold in the least. It softened his features. There was something somewhat apologetic that lingered in the shadows beneath his eyes and the lines the framed upward tilt of his lips. Greg was unsure if the doubt that lingered there was for faults of the past of whatever ills the coffee was meant to brace him against. Greg thought it might be a bit of both. He had developed the ability to determine—deduce, if you would—the severity of the situation based on the coffee he was given. This was good. Damn good. It was fresh, strong, dark, Greg's favorite, and-

"Hold on a moment," Greg queried suddenly, breaking the companionable silence in which they had been ruminating, "Did you _make_ this?"

"Perhaps…" Mycroft said. His gaze shifted sideways briefly, a quick tell. _Well __damn_. Greg's brows rose to his hairline. There was only one reason that someone in this house would _make_ him his favorite coffee in the middle of the afternoon. Well, two, but as it was not his birthday…

"All right," he sighed, bracing himself for the blow, "Let's have it, what's going on?" He set the cup, empty now, down on the counter. It looked rather forlorn, sitting in the space between them, a gauntlet and a white flag.

Mycroft sighed, low and long, "Gregory," he implored, "Does a man need an ulterior motivation to make his partner a cup of coffee?" He looked Greg in the eyes, smiles gone. There was something in Mycroft's gaze as he placed a hand over his heart-ostensibly Greg supposed that the movement was meant to illustrate the pain that he felt as a direct result of Greg's interrogation, but the long fingers looked vulnerable—and his heart twisted sharply in Greg's chest. The gesture was a plea: just for a moment, please let's just pretend that it's all right. Greg's whole face softened, he thought this might be what it was like to feel your heart break because Mycroft never tried to deny reality and he certainly never begged. Greg did the only thing he could think of in that moment: he reached out and placed his hand atop Mycroft's so that they were both of them shielding his heart from further harm. Mycroft looked down at their fingers where they intertwined over his breast. He looked back at Greg, his expression fierce, and covered Greg's hand with his own.

"My," Greg said gently, "You can feel free to make me coffee every bloody day, if you want to. God knows, I wouldn't complain. But I have it on good authority that a Holmes' first method of bribery, in so far as it concerns me, involves caffeine in the first degree."

Mycroft's voice was low and soft, "And upon whose authority does _that_ rest?" He tapped his fingers against Greg's.

"Mine," The DI said evenly, "after many years of hard earned experience. It's effective, I'll give you that…but you could just tell me what's going on."

Mycroft sighed wearily and nodded. "It was a good effort though, eh?" Greg tried for a lopsided grin but didn't quite reach the mark. Mycroft gently tapped Greg's hand once with his fingers before releasing, twisting so that their fingers were interlaced. Greg watched as Mycroft squared his shoulders and took a steadying breath, turning into the incarnation of stability, equanimity and poise.

_Here we go_.

"Won't you sit down, Gregory?" Mycroft inquired voice surprisingly even. Greg's teeth grated roughly against one another. News that required him to sit down was very rarely good.

"Right."

He sat and, after a moment's delay, Mycroft positioned himself opposite the DI. He extended his hand, palm up, across the table, and Greg took it tethering them together, a bridge that said _I'm here whatever it is_. Greg squeezed slightly and waited. Mycroft was looking at the table as if reading a brief or a prepared speech.

"Sherlock is gone," he said finally.

Greg blinked, once, twice, three times.

"But he wasn't meant to leave for another three days," he said when he finally found his voice.

"Yes."

"That's it? Yes?" Greg was gripping Mycroft's fingers tightly.

Mycroft looked up and his eyes were hard, his lips pursed, "That is it."

"And you didn't stop him?"

Mycroft sighed again, "I was _hardly_ given a choice in the matter."

"My?" Greg was stern and demanding.

"He left a _note_," Mycroft's expression was cold and slightly disdainful, whether towards Sherlock or himself was unclear, "He apparently chose to _depart_ whilst I was detained in a meeting with the French ambassador." The way he spat "depart" made it sound like Sherlock had absconded into the night like the rouge in gothic novel, taking the heroine's inheritance with him as he left. Mycroft most certainly did _not_ approve. Neither did Greg.

"Damn him," Greg muttered fervently, releasing Mycroft's hand and leaning back, scrubbing his face in agitation.

"I am of the same opinion," Mycroft looked like he wanted to _murder_ Sherlock. That wasn't too unusual. What _was_ abnormal, to Greg at least, was the barely concealed panic suspended somewhere under the icy exterior. Mycroft was worried. He was angry. And he was terrified. Greg felt his own breath catch. He was typically calm under pressure, both of them were. Their jobs required focus and precision under stressful circumstances, and if Mycroft was losing perspective…Greg took a deep breath, trying to modulate his voice.

"Where did he go?"

Silence.

"My, where did he _go_?" He squeezed Mycroft's fingers, desperation creeping into his tone.

A pause.

"My—"

"I do not _know_, Gregory," the elder Holmes' voice was clipped, checked, and that was as sure a sign as any that things were out of hand.

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft licked his lips, worked his mouth. His nostrils flared, his brow furrowed, and he looked for a moment like he would very much like to stab something. "What I _mean_ is that my brother departed sometime this morning between the hours of ten o'clock and noon," he hesitated, staring at the empty coffee cup, which still stood on the counter, sentinel to their conversation, "I _personally_ estimate 11:22 based on the ink residue on that positively perfunctory _excuse _for a note that he _deigned_ to leave for us—"

"Mycroft," Greg interjected worriedly, and Mycroft shook his head and exhaled sharply, stopping his incensed speech before he could reach the crescendo.

He continued more calmly, "My apologies," Greg shook his head: none were necessary; "He did not indicate his destination by either accident or design, Gregory."

_Fuck_.

"I sent agents after him as soon as I realized the situation _but_…"

"But the trail had already gone cold and if you didn't have a bloody clue—"

"The likelihood of them discovering his whereabouts is _exceedingly_ improbable," Mycroft's gaze met Greg's and the reality of the situation began to echo in the silence, reverberating in the air between them. "It was a mere formality at that point."

Greg closed his eyes, stunned for a moment, pulse beating loudly in his ears, "He's off the grid then."

"So it would _appear_."

"And we've no way to—" Greg wasn't pleading, he _wasn't_, but his tone held a note of desperation and resignation…he knew what the answer was going to be.

"I cannot very well put out a warrant for his safe return," Greg opened his eyes immediately. Mycroft was livid with his brother, with the situation as a whole, with his own inability to amend or control it, "He is, after all, supposed to be _dead_. It would do nothing but sabotage his safety, which he very well _knows_."

"Hey, My," Greg said, but he wasn't quite sure how to continue because the reality was that—

"The _reality_ of the situation is that Sherlock has, in _complete_ disregard for you, me, John Watson or his own damn _safety_,gone gallivanting off into the blue on a _suicide _mission without any indication of where that might take him or when, let alone _if_, he will once again grace us with his presence."

Greg didn't know what to say to that. Mycroft was flushed, his eyes were shooting sparks; he was hurt and angry and helpless, all of the things he least liked to be.

"What about all of the—?"

"Plans, maps, charts?" Mycroft laughed hollowly, "He deconstructed them."

"But didn't you—?"

"Take pictures? Surveillance? Carefully annotated _notes_?" Mycroft's voice had arrived at such a degree of careful moderation that Greg knew he was only a second or two from flying into hysterics, falling apart completely, "Of _course_, I did all of those things—against your wishes. I _have_ been going over them since I discovered the situation…but there is no way to know for _certain_, which information is valid and which is a false trail… Sherlock _knew _that I was watching him more carefully than was even _my_ custom. He will have planted several misdirections in his calculations and—"

Greg took Mycroft's hand and gripped his fingers tightly, they were shaking, "Why not just follow all the leads then?"

"_Because_ even I have limited resources. There are maybe fifteen agents that have the modicum of skills required to deal with this situation and of them, there are only _nine_ that I would feel comfortable trusting with Sherlock's safety and I _cannot_ send my best agents to Budapest only to find that Sherlock is actually in Bogota. I _cannot_."

"Hey, hey, it's all right," Greg said, and the words sounded foolish even to his own ears.

Mycroft laughed, cold, cruel, sharp, an icicle shattering into glittering shards, "Gregory, my brother has broken his word to _you_, he has left us with no indication of where he intends to go, he left a letter for _John_," Greg moved out of his chair and knelt in front of Mycroft now, because _no, no, no, no, no_ "Does that really seem to you like he intends to return at _all_? Does that seem _all right_?"

Mycroft's eyes were wild, though his voice was calm, his jaw was twitching. Greg thought he might be sick as he took Mycroft into his arms, stiff and unyielding, trying to hard not to break. He gripped Greg's arms tightly, like a vise, like maybe the DI could fill all the fissures and cracks. Greg knew what this meant, what all of it meant. Sherlock was planning to bring down Moriarty's network, or die in the attempt. That had always been clear, but until this moment really, they had all thought the extreme of life and death was a possibility not a probability. Mycroft's face was all Greg needed to confirm the gravity of the situation. Mycroft would not be this upset if it had not come down to a situation of last resort. Sherlock would not break his word to Greg. He would not leave something behind for John unless…

"I have already given him a funeral," Mycroft said, pulling back suddenly, swiping forcefully at his eyes, "I will _not_ give him another."

Greg just stared at his partner, the most stoic person he knew, coming unglued at the seams. He felt a lump form in his throat and a high pitched noise in the back of his mind screaming that he had already done this once and could _not_ do it again. Not for real. Not forever. A cold, detached voice in his head that stood apart from everything else, that watched Greg as he tried to sooth Mycroft and overcome the numbness that had settled in his limbs, a small voice that sounded a bit like Sherlock, whispered, _you might not have a choice_.

* * *

><p>Hello my dearest readers. Welcome to chapter 23. What did you think? I do apologize for the delay in the update. Please, leave a review if you have the chance. Thank you for following this story.<p> 


	24. Don't Go

A week passed. Then two. Then three. There was no word. None at all. Not a hint, not a clue, not the slightest indication of Sherlock's position, whereabouts, or safety.

At the end of seven days, Mycroft and Greg had both been worried. Extremely concerned. There was also, however, a strong sense of hope (at least on Greg's part) that there would be news soon. Mycroft, after a lengthy conversation with Greg, had decided to deploy his agents strategically based on his own intelligence on Moriarty's network. Even though his knowledge on the subject was vast and impressive, Mycroft seemed skeptical. He continued to glower, twitching slightly. The manic gleam in his eye had not lessened—if anything it appeared to have increased—but at least he was doing _something_. It might not be effective, but any strategic action made him feel more secure. At the very least, it certainly gave Mycroft opportunities to bark orders at his minions and hiss threats in ten languages to his foreign contacts, which usually guaranteed an improvement in his mood. Greg was relieved that Mycroft had moved beyond stunned inertia and borderline catatonia; he was less pleased to realize that his partner's fervent attempts to find his brother were probably the only thing keeping from flying completely apart at this point.

During the first week, Mycroft looked brittle. He was pale and drawn; he was losing weight with dangerous speed and his eyes looked feverish. Greg was worried that he had contracted some sort of illness and began methodically (furtively) attempting to monitor his health. Truthfully, there was something about his aspect that reminded Greg sharply of Sherlock, as if the brothers had begun to resemble each other more in their respective states of desperation. When Greg broached the subject of Mycroft's wellbeing, carefully neglecting to mention the increased likeness, but framing his suggestions in the concerned voice of a loving partner—perhaps Mycroft should consider seeing a doctor? Taking a nap? Eating something?—Mycroft had looked slightly mad and a chill had radiated off of him when he said that he would rest when Sherlock had been found, "preferably _alive_ so that I can kill him _myself_." Greg had a fleeting flash of concern and a shiver ran down his spine, but he let those sensations dissipate almost immediately. He should worry about Sebastian Moran or some unknown gunman killing Sherlock, or Sherlock dying by his own self-negligence, before concerning himself with Mycroft's present desire to commit fratricide. _One thing at a time, Greg_, he counseled himself, _let's just get him home in one piece and then worry about sedating Mycroft and hiding the knives_. He was putting a lot of faith in the idea that Mycroft's hostility was a mask for his concern and terror. His desire for violence would surely dissipate completely (_all right, __mostly_)once Sherlock was safely back home. Greg certainly hoped so, as he watched Mycroft's long elegant fingers clench and release as if he would very much like to place them around Sherlock's throat.

The crux of the matter in that first week, even the first two, was that they were both, in their own distinct ways, _hoping_. They spent the first day or two in a state of abandonment, shock, anger, bereavement, but then had sprung into action. In Mycroft's case, the transition had been rapid, like flipping a switch. Greg had moved more gradually and more stoically in the direction of fierce faith. Greg's innate loyalty and protective instincts had rallied. He _refused_ to give up. Not yet. And he clung to the belief that Sherlock would be _just bloody_ _fine, thank you_ with tenacity. The kid was a bloody genius, one of the smartest men he knew, Sherlock could look out for himself, hadn't he proven that time and again? Any call could be from Sherlock, any misplaced note, a clue leading them in the right direction, any text could be a sign…except none of them ever were. Each time Greg's hopes were raised, even marginally, and then dashed, it felt like another death, a sharp anticipation that resulted over and over again in his disappointment, devastation, and daily increased concern. He refused point blank to look at the letter addressed to John and Mycroft locked it in his safe, making the smallest possible contact with the dreaded missive as possible. They did not remotely discuss what the hell they would do with the note if…well, just if…

The strain was starting to show. Greg still went to work, he still met with John, but he was on edge. He functioned, but it was clear that he wasn't really sleeping, wasn't really eating either. For all that he critiqued Mycroft's handling of the situation; he wasn't doing much better himself. The two of them would end up sitting together in the early hours of the morning, neither having gone to sleep the night before. Mycroft more often than not spent the evening holed up in his office. Greg passed the evening and early morning in bed staring at the ceiling and hoping to wake up in an alternate universe. Greg inevitably gave up the pretense of sleep around four in the morning, nerves wound tight, driven to the breaking point by too many restless nights, he would make his way to the kitchen for coffee. Mycroft would be sitting at the table making furious phone calls, muttering to himself as he made notes in a small moleskin book, while Greg tried to distract himself from the fact that there was nothing he could really do.

They were strangely united and isolated in those moments. A shared sense of guilt hung thick and cloying in the air between them. Greg didn't blame Mycroft for the state of affairs. _Fine, you want me to be honest? _There was always some part of him that resented Mycroft's endorsement of Sherlock's plan in the beginning…_maybe if he hadn't_…but Greg didn't believe in "what if" scenarios, not really. If Mycroft hadn't supported Sherlock at the outset, Sherlock might have died already; a changed decision could have led them to this same moment, or a vastly different one. Regardless, Greg had also been complicit in how things had turned out. He had had the opportunity to abandon the farce and he had _chosen_ to allow things to continue. He worked daily to let go of any residual anger he felt. Besides, he couldn't blame Mycroft any more than he blamed himself.

Greg could tell that Mycroft was functioning in an unprecedented state of self-flagellation. Self-loathing and recrimination was there in every new line etched around his eyes and mouth, every sharp gesture and word, in his refusal to sleep or eat, in the way that the Sherlock's disappearance consumed him. The DI realized quite quickly that Mycroft believed that Greg held him responsible as well. When he looked at Greg, there was a sorrow in his eyes and he maintained his distance, as if he could never quite earn his forgiveness. Greg tried to tell him otherwise, multiple times, but Mycroft refused to hear it. Greg began to wonder what would happen to them if Sherlock didn't come back…it didn't bear thinking about…

At the end of the third week, things had reached such a pitch that Mycroft actually considered going into the field. That was an indication of how much the situation had deteriorated, how few leads there actually were, because Mycroft preferred to sit at the center of the web and throw out various tendrils into the world without actually joining it.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Greg had said, point blank.

"I fail to see an alternative," Mycroft had rejoined, stubbornly, and Greg was once again painfully aware of how much he was behaving as his brother so often did. He could not distinguish if the resemblance had always been there, if he was only noticing it now because Sherlock was so often in his thoughts, or if Mycroft had just degenerated to such a point that he was unconsciously emulating Sherlock's in his desperation.

Greg liked to think that, in a general sense, he and Mycroft had a mostly egalitarian relationship. Neither man was afraid to call the other on his obstinacy or stupidity. They negotiated the terms of various agreements, always had and always would. There's was a partnership of various compromises, which is what has to happen in order to make the union of such divergent individuals work even theoretically, let alone in practice. Thus far, it had served them well, barring a few moments in which a breach of trust and confidence had occurred. Most recently (and egregiously) had been Sherlock's face suicide, before that these events had been few and far between and usually involved a bickering fight, with one or the other storming off to get some air, coming to their senses and apologizing for being a selfish prat. That was how things typically worked in the Lestrade-Holmes house, but now, _now_, there was a ringing in Greg's ears as he looked at Mycroft's composed face and he could honestly swear in that moment that he had never felt such an overwhelming desire to punch him in his entire life.

"You are _not_, going," Greg was glaring, absolutely hateful in his disagreement. Mycroft didn't seem to hear the cold warning note in Greg's voice.

"—I've booked a flight for tomorrow morning, though, I'm not certain when I will return—" Mycroft continued, oblivious as Greg got to his feet. The DI could feel the blood rushing into his face, was cognizant of the erratic tattoo of his heart. He was had moved to stand in front of Mycroft before the elder Holmes had had any indication of his movement. He was thus pulled up short in his pacing and planning as he nearly walked into Greg. He seemed startled to find Greg in the same room, let alone right in front of him, blocking his movements and grabbing his biceps hard enough to leave bruises. Mycroft looked at the offending fingers as if puzzled to find them there and then starred back at Greg's face, flushed red and completely closed, with feverish eyes.

"You listen to me, Mycroft bloody Holmes—" He began, shaking Mycroft slightly.

"That is _not_ my middle name," Mycroft said as if that fact were important in this moment.

Greg's exasperation knew new heights in that moment. He felt that his head or his heart might explode. "I don't give a _fuck_ if your middle name is Queen Victoria," he said, punctuating his words with another shake, "Mycroft, listen very carefully to me, you are abso-fucking-lutely not going off on some scavenger hunt to find your brother. D'you hear me? You are _not_ going!" His volume had increased substantially without his realizing it. Some part of him was startled to note that the shrill, almost hysterical, voice had come out of his mouth, but the larger part of Greg had more important things with which to concern itself than whether or not he was shouting. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, as they always did when he received an order from anyone. He glared and made to move away, wrench himself loose from Greg's hold, but the DI held on fiercely, keeping him in place, steadfastly digging his fingers even further into Mycroft's arms.

"I _must_ go find him," Mycroft hissed.

"Oh, no you bloody don't."

"He is my _brother_," Mycroft spat, and there was a broken note in his voice. The word came out of this throat like it was being exorcized from with him. He looked positively hunted; the careful façade of control had cracked completely under Greg's immovability. He glanced around widely for the exit. "He is my _brother_. I cannot _leave _him."

"But you can leave me, eh?" Greg shouted back, "Is that it?"

Mycroft looked like he had been slapped in the face. "That is _not_ what I said."

"It's what you fucking meant," Greg released Mycroft; in fact, he practically flung himself away.

Mycroft sighed heavily, "What would you have me _do_? He is my…" Mycroft chocked on his tongue, he seemed lost for words. How to describe Sherlock? His brother, his nemesis, his regret, his pride, his son, his friend, his fear, his ally, his intellectual equal, his verbal sparring partner, the small boy with the scabbed knees who wanted to be a pirate; the withdrawn adolescent who blamed Mycroft for abandoning him; the haunted young man whose shadowed eyes held dark wounded depths, the sharp man who would, against the odds, sacrifice himself for others. How could you even begin to explain that? How could you ever recover that once lost? How could you let it go? "…brother."

"And he's _my_…" Greg began, his throat catching sharply as well, "He's _Sherlock_." He finished. "He's bloody Sherlock and he's a brilliant fucking idiot." Greg felt something burning in his eyes and he brushed his hand roughly against the wetness on his cheeks. "He's a good man, My, but we can't fucking do anything beyond what we're doing to help him."

Mycroft clenched his jaw sharply, "If I were to—"

"What the hell would you do in the field that isn't already being done?"

"I have more skills than any of those—"

"Jesus fuck, you're acting just _like _him," Greg threw his hands out to the sides in exasperation, "Thinking only you can do the bloody job right. Fuck, My. Do you have more information? A new lead? Anything to go on? Anything at all"

Mycroft's mouth snapped shut and he starred at Greg. The DI continued in a better approximation of his normal voice.

"That's not the _point_," Mycroft didn't even mention the comparison Greg had made.

"I think that it bloody well _is_," Greg persisted, crossing his arms across his chest as they glared daggers at one another, "You are a visible figure, you haven't been out in the field in _years_, My, what exactly do you expect to _gain_ from this?"

If looks could kill, Greg would be dying slowly and agonizingly in a vat of boiling acid right now. He didn't care. That meant that he was making sense, perhaps even on the verge of winning this discussion and he was not going to budge an inch. He continued to press his advantage with ruthless precision.

"You know just as well as I do that if he doesn't want to be found, we won't fucking find him," Greg said, Mycroft blinked, "you trained him a bit too well there." Mycroft literally turned his other cheek. Greg could tell that there was a mingled sense of pride and self-loathing boiling up inside his partner, eroding his soul slowly and effectively.

"There is no point in putting yourself in danger if it won't do a damn thing to help him," Greg asserted gently.

"It would make _me_ feel better," Mycroft returned, facing Greg once again. He looked wrecked; he had aged at least ten years in the past three weeks. He opened his palms to Greg, a gesture of surrender. Greg tilted his head to the side and then crossed over to him in three strides and folded him into an embrace. Mycroft's hands came to rest on Greg's shoulder blades and clutched at his shirt as if it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple. He felt a warm wetness on his shoulder where Mycroft's face was buried, completely silent.

"And how would I feel?" Greg whispered roughly. Mycroft held Greg even more tightly, "How do you think I would feel, sitting here and waiting for the two of you?" His throat was constricted, his voice becoming raspier by the second, "How do you think I would—" he cleared his throat, "How d'you think I would feel if I lost you both, My?" Mycroft pulled back enough that he could look at Greg, whose stubbled cheeks were damp with tears. Mycroft's eyes were over bright from desperation and sorrow, but he took Greg's face between his hands, searching for something, soaking in the image, as if he hadn't ever really looked at him properly before, or had forgotten how beautiful and precious he was and couldn't believe the oversight.

Greg clutched at Mycroft's wrists tightly, meeting him stare for stare, "Because I can't do that, My," Greg whispered forcefully, as Mycroft's thumbs grazed his cheekbones, wiping away the tears there, "I just can't."

"I'm sorry, Gregory," Mycroft said and he pressed their foreheads together, so that when his tears fell from his nose they landed on Greg's lips and he tasted salt, "I'm sorry."

"Just don't _go_, My," he said fiercely, Mycroft's sorrow and his own, heavy and bitter on his tongue, "please just—"

Mycroft pressed his mouth to Greg's softly and then hard enough to bruise, "I won't," he promised and Greg pulled him closer. "I won't," he said as he kissed Greg's tears.

"Thank you," Greg whispered back, pulling Mycroft to him, burying his face in the other man's neck and holding on for dear life.

* * *

><p><em>AN: <em>

_Every time I think that I know where this story is going, the characters pop up, point at me, laugh, and say "just kidding!" Which is why this chapter involves Mycroft and Greg dealing with some serious emotional issues while Sherlock is missing. Seriously, I have honestly been saying "only four more chapters to go for the past three months. Anyway…what did you think? Likes? Dislikes? Thoughts? Guesses on where the hell this is going next? I would love it if you would leave a review. Thank you for continuing to read, review, and follow this story. You are all fantastic. *hugs*_


	25. The Unsolved Ones

It was better after that. Greg woke the next morning with Mycroft's face pressed against his chest, snoring gently. The DI's eyes were crusty, glued shut from the previous night's tears. He groaned and rubbed them with the heels of his hands, trying to be as careful as he could to not dislodge or wake Mycroft, who was still so deeply asleep that he didn't even twitch when Greg turned slightly to look at the clock on Mycroft's desk. They had fallen asleep on the sofa in the study. Both too tired to move, too comfortable with one another to really care about the fact that this particular sofa had been chosen for its "classical Victorian feel" than its relative merits as a place to sit, sleep, or recline with any degree of ease. It hadn't mattered last night. It only registered this morning in a discomforting crick in Greg's neck from where it had been resting at a wholly inadvisable angle against the arm.

This was the most either of them had slept in the past three weeks. When he looked down at Mycroft snoring, Greg couldn't help but notice just how damn _tired_ he looked, dark circles like bruises under his eyes. It had taken until this moment—while his face was in repose lost to the sleep of the dead-to realize just how much tension Mycroft had been carrying with him, etched deep into the lines of his face. Greg unconsciously used his thumb to gently ease the wrinkle between his partner's eyes. Mycroft did nothing to wake, but just mumbled something incoherent (he thought it might have been in German) and turned his face to burrow further into Greg's shoulder. Things were still dreadful. They had no idea where Sherlock was or even if—_don't bloody go there, Greg_—well, even if…but they were here together. Truly together this time and not the horrific farce they had been preforming for the past several weeks. They were not just sharing the same space, sniping and stewing, and each individually consumed by their own guilt and agony and resentment and fear. They were actually sharing the burden, which made it, well, still basically unbearable, but much more tenable than had been the case since Sherlock's disappearance. At least Mycroft wasn't leaving on his own suicide mission. At least Greg wasn't going to have to shoulder twice the burden. At least they had finally _slept_. Maybe they could even eat—_whoa, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves_—even as his stomach gave an audible rumble. He started down in shock.

"Huh," for now he just leaned his head back, his eyes felt heavy—_of course they bloody do, idiot, you haven't slept in…_he tried to count in his head and failed miserably…_far more than is advisable probably_- he absently carded his fingers through Mycroft's hair, pleasantly disheveled from sleeping on the sofa in a strangely torqued position. But then, for all his fastidiousness, Greg was certain that if Mycroft intended to sleep (and he did not generally require sleep in the same what that mere mortals did), he could find slumber anywhere, in any position, standing, sitting, bed, chair, floor, rock, whatever. He would suffer hardly any ill effects from his night on the sofa (_bloody medieval torture device, more like…he probably chose if for that exact purpose_). Mycroft held tightly to Greg, and the DI eventually drifted off, pleased that they could at least be in this together if they had to be in it at all.

Gregory Lestrade had worked in law enforcement for several decades now. In that time, he had handled cases on murder, terrorism, rape, robbery, battery, brutality, catastrophes, and natural disasters. He had experience—god; sometimes he really wished that he didn't—in all of these situations. He often came home at the end of a long day, relieved that he could leave most of that at the Yard. The other members of the family took things in a slightly different light. Sherlock was happy to bring home the murders and the mysteries. Like stray animals, he proffered them with big baby eyes and a "please, can I keep these gruesome crime scene photos and cadaver parts? I promise I won't put human spleens in the oven again." Mycroft, of course, was front and center in dealing with national and international disasters and Greg was often concerned about the degree to which some of his seemingly more innocuous cases would provoke a knowing head nod from his partner. Greg had often blustered about the "how the ruddy hell did you know about this?!" aspect in the early days of their relationship, but Mycroft's arched brows, knowing smirk, and sly tap of the nose had led him to eventually give up trying to figure it out. It was better for his sanity and their relationship if he didn't become consumed by conspiracy theories and an overwhelming fear of Big Brother watching him, especially, given the fact that his partner literally _was_ big brother and was definitely watching him and everyone else for good measure.

Overwhelmingly, Greg had often been thankful that, by and large, the cases (even the ones that did come home) did not directly involve or implicate any of his loved ones. He could attempt to soothe concerned parents about the fact that their child had been abducted, or offer his humble, and wholly insufficient, condolences to a wife that her husband had been found dead the previous evening. But at the end of the day, he could come back to the house, collapse into a chair, put his head in his hands, and let go of all of it all. Mycroft was fine. Sherlock was fine. John was fine. Greg himself was okay. And he was grateful for all of those things.

But now, well…the disappearances had always been the worst. At least with cases that involved death, the victims-and Greg really did count the friends and family as victims of the crime; they were left to deal with the aftermath of the violence and heartbreak—had some small measure of closure. There was, at the absolute least, a body to bury, a grave to visit, a definite death to mourn. There existed a point from which you could attempt—often in vein, but sometimes not—to move on. With the missing: kidnappings, abductions, runaways …well, you never really knew. Cases could drag on for years with few leads. Each day that went by, each hour that someone wasn't found, pushed a good outcome further and further from the realm of possibility. The families, the friends, they were held in a permanent state of suspended animation, unsure, unknowing, unable to every really let go of the hope that they felt, the elusive _maybe someday_…It was cruel and heartbreaking.

Greg knew where they kept the files of the unsolved cases. Sherlock did too. He had found the room on his own shortly after he began working for the Yard. The difference between the two men was that Sherlock took the files as a personal affront which needed to beaten into submission. Greg looked at the files, those that he had been personally involved in, and those that he had not, and saw the strained faces of the families and friends. Greg had discovered that it was always good to keep some of the files on reserve for those moments in which Sherlock had nothing to work on. The unsolved ones drove him mad and consumed all of his attention for at least a month at a time. The consulting detective had been responsible for solving some of them. But even Sherlock did not have a flawless record insofar as they were concerned. Evidence was scarce and contaminated. Memories were altered by the merciless passage of time. Sherlock would occasionally be driven to his wits' end trying to solve what was essentially unsolvable and if Sherlock couldn't puzzle it together…

They had agreed long ago—mostly by virtue of Greg keeping the room securely locked and restricting Sherlock's access—that the consulting detective was not permitted in there. It felt too much like traipsing over graves. Sherlock was kept busy enough and he understood that one of the conditions of his employment was that he stay out of that area. He agreed readily and Greg thought that it was most likely because Sherlock saw the files as a personal affront to his honor as a genius and a detective. The consulting detective's eyes narrowed disdainfully whenever certain cases were referenced.

Greg wasn't sure why he thought of this just now, as he drifted between sleep and awake. A memory came unbidden to the front of his mind as lay there, viciously uncomfortable on an antique sofa, Mycroft supported by his chest. An image of Sherlock, young, sleep deprived, tousled, disheveled, running his hands agitatedly through his hair, pacing the living room of Lestrade's flat during their early partnership. _It must have been what? Three months? Four? Since Sherlock had come to stay…_ The room had been a wreck. Sherlock had been working on the case of Ygritte Wilson, a fifteen year old girl who had vanished one afternoon in April of 1985, never to be seen again. Greg had thought something was wrong based on Sherlock's expression and demeanor, not to say anything of the way that flat looked like it had barely survived a hurricane.

"What the bloody-?"

Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils. Sherlock turned to face the DI; his eyes were sharp, that strange bleached grey, gleaming with manic frustration.

"Where is the rest?" He spat acerbically, forcibly removing Lestrade's briefcase from his hands and riffling through its contents, heedless of its owner's protestations.

"The rest of _what_?" Lestrade questioned, exasperated, "_Sherlock_, those papers took five hours to—no don't just throw them on the floor. Christ. What are you looking for?"

"The rest!"

"The rest of _what_?" Lestrade was only beginning to grasp the fact that Sherlock would rarely if ever explain things fully so that a normal person could understand what the ruddy hell he was on about. It was a rather frustrating circumstance every day and occasionally left the two of them shouting at one another as if either or both of them were deaf and/or speaking completely different languages, perhaps both at once. This was one of those moments in which Greg had briefly entertained the possibility of hiring a nanny or a translator to aid in their quality of life.

"The file, the case," Sherlock said as clearly as possible, condescension writ large on his face, "Ygritte Wilson's _file_. The information concealed here is entirely insufficient. Unacceptable really—"

Lestrade's shoulders stooped, "Sherlock…"

"I need data, numbers, clues, Lestrade," he continued oblivious, "How you expect me to reach a positive conclusion with—

"_Sherlock_…"

"—inadequate and incomplete data is wholly—"

"Sherlock," Lestrade all but shouted and the detective stopped mid-stream, "Thank you. There isn't any more."

"What?" Sherlock blinked and then narrowed his eyes disdainfully, as if Greg were intentionally withholding information in order to screw with him. _Ah, trust, thy name is Sherlock Holmes_. Greg rolled his eyes and contained his sarcasm, just barely.

"There isn't any more information, Sherlock," he said bluntly. _It wouldn't do to crush his dreams too gently. Nothing like being kind to the vulnerable, eh? Good on you, mate_. _Oh, shut it_. Greg continued in a slightly kinder tone, "The case. It's nearly twenty years old and there wasn't much information to go on then either."

Sherlock glared at Greg, still suspicious and extremely frustrated, "A girl disappears without a trace? I find that highly dubious."

"Happens all the time, mate."

"There are only three pieces of evidence. People don't 'disappear,'" long slender fingers formed skeptical quotations in the air, "without leaving evidence behind, Lestrade," he considered this carefully for a moment, going to a dark corner of his mind palace undoubtedly, "Not unless they mean to."

There was clearly a story there, but Greg chose not to pursue it.

"Look, Sherlock, sometimes—" the DI began consolingly.

"I blame the respondents. There _was_ evidence twenty years ago; the _idiots_ assigned to the case were incompetent. If they hadn't been this would have been resolved. Now there is _nothing_ but this file and it is not acceptable," whether he was more upset with the officers, the offending file, which Sherlock appeared to be attempting to set aflame with the ferocity of his glare, Greg, or his own inability to find resolution, the DI was unsure.

"Sometimes, Sherlock, people just disappear and we don't find them. Sometimes, you can't figure it out," he paused, looking at Sherlock's determined face. It was a bit frightening. Stubbornness and obstinacy hung around him like an aura and his eyes had darkened to a stormy shade of blue. _Never a good sign._

"Sometimes cases just go unsolved, Sherlock…" Lestrade felt the weight of his own helplessness. You could do everything humanly possible and still come out at the end of the day or the end of years empty handed and bitter. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hesitantly, and the consulting detective, predictably, jerked his arm away and moved briskly to the wall where he had pinned numerous photographs of the case. The DI sighed, "Even you can't solve all of them…"

"Watch me," the consulting detective had hissed. Greg just sighed, resolved to the madness and the inevitable destruction of his possessions and sanity. Sherlock never did find out what had happened to Ygritte Wilson. That didn't stop him from spending the next four weeks working on—viciously obsessing about—the case. Greg could tell that he was trying to prove a point, but even he eventually, had been forced to give up. They rarely mentioned the case, but Sherlock did not often seek out the unsolved ones after that. He particularly avoided the missing person's cases.

As Lestrade drifted closer to sleeps, he heard Sherlock's voice, sharp, and echoing "Watch me," he remembered his own warning about the lack of resolution, and the image of Ygritte Wilson, most likely long since deceased, and her crying parents circled through his mind. Greg's dreams were fraught with death and darkness.

He startled awake again a few hours later. He was alone. Mycroft must have left sometime in the interim. There was a cup of coffee and a note waiting for Greg on the side table as he scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. Greg gulped down the caffeine in three large mouthfuls, feeling slightly more alive as he read the accompanying missive. _Mycroft __would__ write a note on parchment in calligraphic script at six in the morning._

_**Dearest Gregory,**_

_**I have endeavored not to wake you. I have gone to make arrangements for several additional reconnaissance missions in Prague and attempt to deescalate a potential conflict with the Americans. I shall most likely be home late. **_

_**All my love,**_

_**Mycroft**_

Greg set the note down and rubbed his eyes again. He stumbled to the master bathroom, showered, shaved, and avoided looking the mirror as much as possible. He quickly dressed in trousers and an oxford shirt beneath a blazer. He grabbed his keys, had a moment's fluttering in his chest as he picked up his phone (no messages), and shoved it violently into the pocket of his coat, fixed a grimace that he hoped approximated a smile on his face, and headed out into the day.

Five hours later, Greg had overseen two new cases, had a long conversation with Anderson about establishing new rules for appropriate health and safety procedures on crime scenes. This was accompanied by a fifty page memorandum, which Greg was fairly certain Anderson had been working on since Sherlock and John had become a dynamic duo at the Yard. Many of the points that he had so far had the pleasure to read in exacting detail had been in direct response to Sherlock's more "unorthodox" methods. Greg had consumed four more cups of, extremely strong, coffee and was in the middle of writing the third in a series of long departmental notices when he heard a knock on his door.

"Yeah," he barked without looking up.

"Dr. Watson's here to see you, sir," Sgt. Donovan said from the doorway. Greg glanced up at that and sighed.

"Send him in, will you, Donovan," he grunted, leaning back in his chair.

Donovan came back with John in toe. The two refused to make eye contact and there was a tension and rigid politeness between them.

"John," Greg said, standing and gesturing to the empty seat across from him. Donovan disappeared quietly, closing the door behind her. "What brings you down here today?"

John looked around furtively. He hadn't been to the Yard in several months and he pursed his lips for a moment before responding. "Just came to, ah, say hello."

Greg's brows furrowed quickly. _John doesn't just turn up at the Yard without reason after months of absence. _"Yeah?" he asked dubiously.

John opened his mouth, closed it, and then continued, "No, actually."

"Oh?"

"I, er, got a note from Harry, two days ago, postcard really…"

Greg nodded slowly, "Okay? She having a nice holiday?"

"Well, ah, that's the trouble…" John licked his lips and rubbed at his knee without any really conscious thought, "Harry hasn't been on holiday."

_Do. Not. React_. A voice cautioned in his head. It sounded suspiciously like Mycroft, who would probably be sending surreptitious missives at this very moment if he could. 221B would be completely covered in agents in a matter of moments. Alas, it was only Greg, who quirked an eyebrow in interest and tilted his head, "Yeah?"

"Well, she was, but about a month ago. Yesterday, I got a postcard from her. It seemed a bit odd and wasn't sure what to make of it, but, er, well with things the way they are…" In John's version of reality there was frequent hate-mail in response to the Sherlock debacle in the presses, there was a continued fear of Moriarty's network, and there were the handful of Sherlock loyalists whose fanaticism was quite as frightening in its own way. John thought that the note was a threat; Greg might have thought so too, except…he had a sixth sense about these things and it didn't feel like a danger, it felt like salvation.

"Right," Greg's voice was totally calm, "mind if I take a look?"

"'Course," John reached into his pocket and offered Greg a luridly colored post-card from Barcelona. It was garish, a horrid clash of mustard yellow and violet with lime green graphic letters across the front. It would have set Mycroft's teeth on edge, but it made Greg forcibly contain his smile and the excitement in his chest. He took it from John's hand with steady fingers. The blogger's had a slight tremor that Greg didn't comment on. _PTSD_, he reminded himself.

The note was simple. _**Love from Barcelona!**_ Harry proclaimed in curling script**: **_**I ran into some DEAR FRIENDS. This holiday shows GREAT PROMISE! I have every confidence that it will be a SUCCESS. Love to my **__**DEAREST**__** brother and best friend. Hoping to be reunited QUITE SOON. Love, Harry S. Watson.**_

"Well," Greg said evenly, though inside he was screaming, "that's simple enough, isn't it?"

"I'd say she must've been drinking, but she's, ah quit. She and Clara went on holiday together…It's off Greg…" John stated firmly. Greg was reminded that he was not the only with instincts

"What d'you mean, John?"

"Harry was in Barcelona with Clara," the blogger explained, eyes narrowed, "but not the date of the post-mark, she left the city two days before."

"Might've gotten bit lost in the mail. International post, eh?" Greg hedged.

John raised his brows, "Harry S. Watson it says."

"Yeah, I can see that. I don't understand what—"

"Harry's middle name is Elizabeth," John said firmly and Greg stared at the note in his hands.

"Right."

"Right."

"Hmmm," Greg kept his face completely calm, "why don't you let me hang on to this?" He tapped the postcard against the desk, as if it wasn't the single most potentially precious thing that he possessed at present. "Let some analysts take a look at it. I'll talk to My, we'll up the security at 221B, all right?"

John nodded tightly, "Probably for the best." He hated it when they hovered, but desperate times called for desperate measures. John didn't particularly feel inclined to have anyone: fan, fanatic, or trained killer break into the flat.

"Well, I'd best be off," the blogger got to his feet, "I'm working a shift at the clinic in an hour." John looked tired and drawn, and he seemed eager to leave the Yard as quickly as possible. Greg didn't exactly blame him.

"Great," Greg encouraged, "You know you're welcome any time."

"Yeah, all right," John shook Greg's hand and made for the door, "I'll see you next Saturday, yeah?"

"Next…"

"Saturday, Greg," John had that blank expression on his face. The face he wore whenever he referenced Sherlock, "it's the, ah, anniversary."

Greg could have kicked himself. It would be ten months since Sherlock's death. Greg thought he might vomit from the combination of despair, exhaustion, excitement, and strain, but he held it together.

"I mean, ah, you don't have to obviously but…" John trailed off, lips pursed, shoulders squared, at attention.

"Of course, I'll be there." Greg said, "My will come too."

John smiled grimly.

"Take care of yourself, John," Greg added.

"You too."

Greg shut the door behind the blogger and collapsed his chair. He looked at the postcard, taking it in two hands. "Sherlock, you fucking _bastard_," he hissed and for two minutes he stared at the missive unsure to laugh or cry, then he picked up his phone and dialed Mycroft.

"I think we've gotten a letter."

_AN:_

_Welcome to Chapter 25. I cannot believe how long this fic has become or that you have actually stuck with me through it all. I am so deeply honored that you have. Thanks for reading and reviewing and following and putting up with all of the angst. You guys are truly the best. A few things to clear up: I know that Sherlock hasn't made an appearance lately and for that I am truly sorry. The problem (or awesomeness?) of this story is that it is told largely from Greg's POV, so if Sherlock's off on his adventures, we don't necessarily get to see it. Drives me a bit mad sometimes actually. As you can tell by the end of this chapter Sherlock may be making an appearance soon. Until then, just bear with me. There will be a fic to accompany this that includes the perspectives of Mycroft, John, and Sherlock at various points in No Words. _

_Again, thank you all so much for reading this story. If you get the chance, please, leave a review. I love to hear from you all. _


	26. Anniversary

That phone call led to a flurry of activity.

Mycroft was a beautiful combination of elated and incensed. Elated that his brother might, in fact, still be alive, he didn't admit as much but his face had fleetingly crinkled in an involuntary smile. This was quickly supplanted by incensed because, well: "how could he be so irredeemably _stupid_ as to send proof of his continued existence to John Watson of all people? He _knows_ that Baker Street is being watched. _Constantly_. If John was suspicious enough to bring this to Scotland Yard for investigation," (he brandished the garish postcard like a death Frisbee) "when we both know that he has been avoiding the Yard like the _plague_—." Greg watched as Mycroft continued to work himself into a rage. He more or less tuned out everything that the man was saying in favor of enveloping him into a spine crushing hug.

"I'm happy he's okay too," Greg confirmed, while Mycroft sniffed with indignation.

"I am not _happy_. I am profoundly _annoyed_," he pulled back and glared at Greg, whose facial expression was not in the slightest deterred by Mycroft's hostility, "and Sherlock is going to face the full weight of my displeasure when he returns…"

Greg made a mental note to remove as many sharp objects, fire arms, and potentially lethal poisons from Mycroft's reach. _Not that it'll do much good. Man's bloody determined_.

From there, they moved on to the more complex task of actually locating Sherlock. "He has undoubtedly long since left Barcelona," Mycroft confirmed, moving towards his desk, where he began strategizing, sending coded messages, and generally using his phone with more dexterity than the DI possessed.

It was quickly determined that it was very unlikely that Sherlock was anywhere near Iberia. He had probably left as soon as he mailed the postcard, likely flown to Barcelona for the sole purpose of sending the note, and then departed to throw everyone off of his scent. Mycroft dispatched a team to Spain regardless (he spent two hours yelling in _Castellano_ over the phone, which Greg would have thoroughly enjoyed under other circumstances). There was, of course, the very real, and simultaneously terrifying, possibility that the missive had been sent by Moriarty's network or a crazed fan. They also had to entertain the notion that Sherlock had been lost to them shortly after the postcard had been mailed. There was no way to contact him, no clue as to where he intended to go, and Mycroft and Greg were back to waiting with baited breath.

Even so, Mycroft had a new lead and Greg was more inclined to believe that Sherlock was at least finding moderate success in his mission. John was the best barometer for Sherlock's behaviors, after all. Say what you will about Sherlock's less savory traits (stifling arrogance, blinding ignorance about certain things, horrible condescension) and more reprehensible behaviors (keeping human body parts in the linen closet and, you know, faking his own death to the misery of his immediate family and friends), but he would not send anything to John, however cryptic, if he was not serious about its contents. Even if the note had been meant for Greg and Mycroft, it had been _addressed_ to John Watson and John was many things to Sherlock but never merely a carrier pigeon (not at this stage of their relationship). He was the most important person in Sherlock's universe. The separation was killing them both. _And don't we all bloody know it…except maybe Sherlock_…The consulting detective would not have reached out to John, no matter how indirectly, if he didn't mean what he was saying. Not at this point. _We're going to have a long talk about honesty in relationships when he gets back_, Greg thought with a certain degree of dread.

Mycroft and his team of "experts" ("please, Gregory, do not give them delusions of grandeur. They are already being over paid for substandard work and showing next to nothing for it") dissected the note in every way possible. There were no insights, but neither Greg nor Mycroft had really expected there to be any. Mycroft's eyes flashed with renewed fervor (and potentially violent leanings). _Sherlock's going to be under house arrest if and when he gets back…and that's assuming that Mycroft doesn't strangle him on sight._ Greg surreptitiously started to serve dinner with blunted knives.

As all of this waiting and wondering continued, Greg and Mycroft prepared for the anniversary. It had been ten months since Sherlock had jumped off of St. Bart's roof.

John visited Sherlock's grave once a week, so far as Greg was aware. He was sometimes accompanied by Mrs. Hudson, but more frequently went alone. Mycroft kept tabs on John and confirmed that the blogger occasionally spent hours sitting or standing near the grave, sometimes in silence, sometimes speaking. Greg didn't like the idea of anyone intruding on so personal a moment, but he also didn't like the idea of John being unguarded. Keeping the agent at a respectful distance was a caveat of the arrangement. Greg visited infrequently but the impulse was like a loose tooth, he couldn't quite leave it alone. He had to worry it. Even though he knew that the grave was empty, it was Sherlock's and while his life was in the balance the grave was a literal touch stone for Greg. He hadn't been to the cemetery with John since the funeral. He was not relishing the prospect of doing so now. It wasn't hard to feel grief when he stood there. He felt sorrow, palpable and stifling for John, who still thought Sherlock was dead, for Mycroft, who was so strained he might snap at any moment, for Sherlock, who was god only knew where, for how their lives had all been shattered and splintered, he even felt, in a rare moment, standing there, for himself.

The night before the anniversary, Greg had a nightmare. He saw Sherlock's bloody corpse again but this time it was accompanied by John's and Mycroft's. There was nothing that Greg could do to save any of them as one by one they fell to death. He woke with his heart beating wildly; sweat pooling over his skin, breathing erratically. He was alone in bed and it took him several agonizing moments before he could completely separate his nightmares from reality. He realized that Mycroft was fine; he had just stayed up all night in his study. But Greg needed the confirmation. He gave up all pretense of trying to get back to sleep, and stumbled out of bed, noticeably shaking, to find Mycroft, alive and well, seated at the desk in his study, scribbling in a notebook. Greg sighed and slumped against the door, just observing, before walking to the kitchen and brewing some tea to sooth them both. He had to brace himself against the counter for several long moments while he waited for the water to boil, breathing heavily. He brought Mycroft a cup of tea, padding softly in the early morning. His partner looked up, confused and vaguely besieged, noticing the grey cast to Greg's skin and his bloodshot eyes.

"Did you sleep at all?" Greg asked. He was rewarded with a strained smile.

"What do you think?" The elder Holmes queried, gesturing to the vast pile of notes that cascaded in messy piles around his desk with one hand and taking a sip of his tea with the other.

Greg slumped onto the sofa with a groan and a grimace, "I think it's been a long ten months."

Mycroft smiled dourly, "Quite. Try to sleep, Gregory. I am right here." He watched as Greg closed his heavy eyes, making sure that his partner remained in his line of vision. When Greg jerked awake again throughout the early morning, Mycroft soothed him back to sleep. At seven, they gave up all pretense of resting (or working), and began to prepare for the day.

The two dressed in black. Neither ate anything. Greg sat starred into his mug—his favorite, old and reliable, the one that he had held tight to the day of Sherlock's funeral—searching in vain for answers and resolution in its murky depths. Mycroft sat rigidly at the kitchen table: spine erect, hands folded neatly before him. His knuckles had turned white from the pressure. He was examining his fingers with extreme interest. His focus would have been exceptionally impressive if not for the fact that he seemed to be made of spun glass and likely to shatter at any moment. Like Greg, he had many mixed feelings about this day. It was the anniversary of mourning, a moment to reflect upon what had happened, the tragedies, real and imagined, that had defined their lives, their relations to one another, to those present and those missing. Greg reached his hand out to Mycroft, placing it atop the tightly clasped fingers. Mycroft looked up to meet Greg's eyes. The DI gave him a reassuring squeeze and nodded.

"Are you quite all right, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, his voice perfectly modulated and self-contained.

Greg had a horrible premonition that he was going to spend the day in the grips of terrible all-consuming flashbacks. "Yeah," he grimaced, "Well, probably not, but let's go anyway." He tugged Mycroft to his feet and the elder Holmes surveyed him carefully. "You sure you want to come?"

Mycroft raised his brows archly, "And disappoint John by denying him my presence? Never. I know how much he relishes my company."

Greg laughed dryly, "Well you know how much he looks forward to your little heart to hearts."

"Precisely," Mycroft looked strained and he fiddled briefly with his cufflinks (Mycroft was not a fiddler).

Greg tightened his hold on Mycroft's fingers ever so briefly, "He'll appreciate you being there, My."

"He blames me, Gregory," his face was impassive. Mycroft was used to the weight of other people's blame resting on his shoulders, "Quite rightly given the circumstances."

Greg didn't comment. Mycroft would blame himself continually no matter what Greg tried to tell him to the contrary. "Maybe so, but he, er, respects you too. He'll want you to be there." It was true. Mycroft and John might never be what any sane person would call _friends_ but their shared concern for Sherlock had forged an alliance between the two men. Over the past few months—_what I personally like to refer to as hell on earth_—there had been serious ups and downs, but around the time that Mycroft has stopped John from, well from following through on his plans something had clicked between the two of them. John would expect Mycroft to be there. Greg would bring him. They could do this together, this horrible, painful, farcical thing. They could be a broken family. Really. They could.

Mycroft surveyed Greg's face closely and nodded. "We'd best be on our way then. I'm certain that the good doctor will be expecting us."

Greg nodded and let Mycroft lead the way, stopping on the threshold to take his umbrella. It had started to rain.

John was waiting at the gates of the cemetery when they arrived. He was standing at attention and he nodded curtly when he saw Mycroft and Greg approach.

"John," Mycroft offered by way of greeting, "always a pleasure to see you."

"Mycroft," John returned. His face was closed and distant. Greg couldn't blame him for not lying about being necessarily happy to see Sherlock's brother, "Greg."

"I…ah…we brought these," Greg proffered the bouquet of wildflowers that he held in one of his hands.

John smiled tightly. It looked that he might be developing a case of lockjaw, "He would bloody hate them." Greg let out a sharp laugh and Mycroft smirked.

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?" the DI replied, as if it was obvious.

"He wouldn't get the sentiment," John said with a pained smirk.

"But he would absolutely _adore_ the attention," Mycroft rejoined and the other two men couldn't quite help but agree.

"Shall we pay our respects?" he nodded purposefully in the direction of the grave, and Greg was somehow reminded of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, forcing Scrooge to confront his destiny. The three men trudged together down the path in silence. By unspoken agreement, John walked between Mycroft and Greg, the steady drizzle falling onto their heads, a mist rising from the earth. Mycroft used his umbrella as a cane. Greg buried his hands deeply into the pockets of his overcoat. John walked with a slight limp, hands fisted at his sides. When they reached Sherlock's grave, they stood at attention, sentinels for the absent and the lost. Greg had a vivid image of the moment when they lowered the coffin into the earth, the way that John had collapsed, the way that he himself felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest and there was not enough air to fill his lungs and never would be again. He had to take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. It echoed like a sigh.

Greg was the first to move. He laid the bundle of flowers at the base of the headstone. The bright colors looked gaudy against the black stone, the grey cast of the day and the generally bleak atmosphere. John was staring fixedly at the name etched into the stone. Greg rested his hand briefly against the top of the cold monument and closed his eyes, sending out a prayer, though to whom or what he didn't know. _Please, just let him be all right. Let him get the hell back here and let us all come out of this in one piece. You hear that, Sherlock? Fucking just…stop this whole bloody thing and get back here? All right? I promise I won't let either of them murder you on sight, okay? So just stop the bloody nonsense. Okay? __Okay__?_ He nodded and tapped the stone and stepped back.

"Idiot," he muttered as he moved to stand behind John. The blogger just kept staring straight ahead.

"The flowers are lovely," John said, clearly trying for levity and sarcasm and not achieving it. His voice was largely toneless. _At least he tried_; Greg had to give him credit for that.

Mycroft, on the other hand, let out a bitter laugh, startling both John and Greg as he chuckled, wiping at his eyes.

"My, are you—?" losing your mind? Going insane? Having a breakdown? A fit? An existential crisis? Greg wasn't sure how to finish his question.

"They are positively _hideous_," he said through his laughter, "quite right. They were Greg's idea."

"Hey!" Greg was mildly annoyed to be blasphemed in such a way.

"Sherlock would _despise _them," which was apparently why Mycroft had let Greg pick them, "which is precisely why we brought them."

Mycroft glared at the gravestone as he slowly came back to himself. "My brother was an _idiot_ and he deserves nothing short of mawkish and tawdry funereal traditions."

"Mycroft, ah, are you okay?" John asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

Mycroft assumed an attitude of sobriety and a somber expression as he carefully laid a hand on John's shoulder. The blogger flinched. "I am perfectly fine, John. Thank you for your kind invitation." He nodded at Greg, pivoted, and swept away from the two of them without a backwards glance.

"He's been a bit, ah, stressed lately?" Greg offered by way of apology, torn between staying with John and running after Mycroft to make certain that he didn't do something foolish.

He was still vacillating between who needed him more when John spoke and the DI's attention redirected of its own accord.

"You know, I used to think they weren't quite human, you know?" He said, staring at Sherlock grave.

"I'm still not totally sure they are," Greg muttered, and the corner of John's mouth quirked before falling back into a frown.

"That's the last thing that I ever said to his face," John admitted. "I told him, er…I called him a machine, told him he didn't care…"

"I, ah, didn't know that," Greg admitted. John had never told him this before in all their talks, in all those moments that they had sat together stewing over the grief; neither had confessed to the personal responsibility that they both felt for Sherlock's death.

"…and then I left…" John took a moment, trying to find the words he wanted; Greg wasn't sure what to say, "and, you know, it's, ah, silly now, because he was just trying to get me out of the way, and I wonder…sometimes, you know, I wonder if I hadn't gone if he would've…hm, if I could've stopped him before he…before he got to the roof..." John didn't move his eyes from Sherlock's name, and though his eyes were a bit wetter than usual, there was no other indication of his grief. He looked as if he might have been made of marble. Sherlock's ghost hovered between them, still and pale, blood across his forehead, silent, judging.

"John," Greg tried gently, coming up next to him and placing a steading hand on his shoulder. It was a mark of their friendship, he thought, that John didn't immediately pull away. "The last bloody thing that I…before he, before all this, the last thing I did was have him _arrested_." Greg shook his head. _Never mind all my sins since then_. "I…I blame myself every day for what's happened."

John didn't respond directly, "It's different." Greg couldn't deny that, "He's Sherlock and I, I should have known. It was Mrs. Hudson. He once half-killed a man for her, if she was in danger there was no way that he would just sit there and—"

"John," and Greg was surprised at his voice, reproachful and stern, a voice that he never used with John but had often used with his erstwhile flat mate, "You're not going to do yourself any good with this. You're just going to drive yourself mad. We can't undo this and even if we'd…" he paused, "he's Sherlock, John. He didn't want us to know and so we didn't and you can't blame yourself for that."

They both knew that he could and likely would do just exactly that.

"I'm sorry," the DI said.

John nodded tersely, "Me too…you should go on, catch up with Mycroft. He seemed a bit off."

Greg hesitated, "Why don't you come with us? We'll get some tea…or a pint? Whatever you'd like."

"Thanks but I think I'm just going to stay for a bit longer."

Greg nodded. He understood. There were things to be said between John and Sherlock. Things that one of them might never hear. Greg felt a squeezing pressure in his chest.

"'Course, John," he gripped the blogger's shoulder in what he hoped was reassurance, "If you change your mind, you know where to find us."

"Yeah, Greg," He forcibly smiled, "I'll catch up with you later."

Greg nodded and turned to leave; looking back, once he'd reached the gate, at the lone figure by the grave. John had moved closer to the headstone and he seemed to be saying something, but the DI was too far away to hear it.

Mycroft was waiting in the car and the two drove home in silence. Mycroft staring out the window, Greg with his head tipped back, massaging his eyes.

"That could have gone worse," he admitted.

"Was John all right?" Mycroft asked.

"Eh, about usual," they walked into their flat, both dragging their feet with a combination of physical and emotional exhaustion, "He held up better than I expected."

"Well, one can always count on the good doctor to soldier on." Mycroft said.

Greg just blinked, "Did you just make a joke?"

"It's been known to happen on occasion."

"My, you know I love you, and I really don't mean to offend you, but I'm starting to worry about your sanity," Greg admitted.

"Only just beginning?"

Greg rolled his eyes, "More than usual."

Greg opened the door and shrugged out of his coat. Mycroft set his umbrella to dry. Greg made his way towards the kitchen ("Shepherd's pie for dinner, we could use some comfort in this bloody mausoleum" "Are you attempting irony?" "Maybe"), Mycroft to his study ("I shall see if anything has turned up" "And if not you'll just yell at people until you feel better" "You know me too well"). There was a moment's quiet in which Greg began to gather ingredients from the refrigerator in order to prepare dinner (which they would both eat, damn it), and Mycroft presumably began to make "very important" phone calls. Greg turned around carrots in one hand, peas in the other, and almost had a heart attack when he heard Mycroft shout from down the hall. He dropped the vegetables and ran, banging an elbow against the door in the process and reaching for the gun that he had taken off and put away hours ago. He slammed into the study able to discern words amidst the shouting.

"You bastard!"

"My what the fucking—shit."

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><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome, everyone, to Chapter 26. What did you think? I hope that you enjoyed. Please, take the time to leave a review if you get the chance. They are greatly appreciated it. _

_Thank you everyone for following, favoriting, and reviewing this story. You are all fantastic. More to come soon._


	27. The Prodigal

"Hello, Inspector."

Sherlock was standing in the center of the room. _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ was standing in the center of the room. Greg couldn't believe his eyes. The consulting detective's coat was dripping dully onto the rug. His face was pale, drawn, down-right cadaverous. There was a new scar on his cheekbone. His hair had been grown out, untidy curls brushed his shoulders. He had purple circles beneath his eyes and a bruise on his left temple that had faded to sickly greens and yellows. He could have been a reanimated corpse for all that his body seemed to be skin and bones; his slender frame lost in the ACDC t-shirt, ripped jeans and combat boots that he wore, for some inexplicable reason, beneath the long black coat that enveloped the whole His eyes, however, were alert; a shocking shade of green, as they looked at Greg with something that almost resembled fondness.

Greg was strangely transfixed. He was unaware, for instance, that his mouth had dropped open as he regarded the consulting detective as if seeing a ghost. Mycroft, however, though briefly interrupted in the midst of his tirade by Greg's entrance, rallied almost immediately.

"Yes, Gregory, as you can see, the prodigal son has _finally_ decided to grace us with his presence," he spat.

Greg shook his head, focusing his attention on his partner, who was standing almost languidly, like a snake, luring its prey into complacency, before going in for the kill. Greg really hoped that he wasn't the target. "Darling, if you would be so kind," the elder Holmes hissed, "Go forth and fetch the fatted calf. I am entirely certain that our little magician is starving." Mycroft focused his piercing gaze on his brother, "_especially_ considering that fact that it would appear that Sherlock has found himself incapable of securing nourishment on his own _for the past month_."

Greg glanced between Mycroft and Sherlock and back again. It certainly appeared that the younger man hadn't eaten anything since the last time that Greg had seen him. The DI was paralyzed by an internal battle. He was presently unsure whether his protective instincts to make sure that Sherlock wasn't viciously murdered by his own brother would overcome his desire to punch him the face, throw him in a jail cell, and keep him there under twenty-four hour surveillance. Mycroft's face promised excessive violence and swift justice. At the same time, Greg was certain the two of them together could overpower, subdue, and incarcerate Sherlock if they collaborated

It was around this moment that he realized that he still hadn't moved or spoken since he had entered the room. There was a heavy silence in the air. He blamed his lack of action on the fact that Sherlock was standing, a shadow of his former self, looking like he'd been beaten halfway to hell in the mosh pit of some concert, and it was so strangely unlikely that Greg wasn't quite sure how to respond to it. He was certain that he ought to be doing _something_. There was a curious ringing in in his ears. Sherlock had turned back to face his brother, who was saying something menacing while flexing his fingers compulsively as if he would love nothing more than throttle some sense into his brother. Greg was strangely hazy about most things in this moment but he was hyper aware of the silver letter opener on the desktop. Sherlock did not seem to be responding at all other than standing there, still sopping wet from the rain, and not returning Mycroft's invective at all.

Greg shook his head and there was sound in the room again. He could distinguish words but didn't quite care what any of them meant. He strode forward grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder and swung him around in one fluid motion. He was far too thin and far too pliable but thankfully wholly corporeal. Greg was unbelievably relived to realize that the very strange looking creature in the living room was not a figment of his imagination, unless, of course, he had reached the point of full tactile hallucinations. Greg reached for Sherlock's other shoulder and, taking the detective firmly in hand, shook him once, quite thoroughly, surveying his face: the new hollows and lines and scars and bruises. _John would have a fit if he could see this moron_. The consulting detective raised his brows with the same old obnoxious tilt of the head and sardonic smirk, perhaps, reading Greg's mind just as easily as always. Greg certainly hoped so because he didn't think that he had the words to express all the things he was currently grappling with. He would try to articulate none the less.

"You are a fucking _idiot_," Greg seethed, "D'you hear me? A fucking _idiot_. What the hell were you thinking?" He gave the consulting detective another shake.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, and Mycroft cut in sharply "I do believe that he is being rhetorical at the moment, dear brother."

Sherlock's eyes shifted quickly to his brother and then back to Greg, his mouth snapping shut in the process. The DI didn't stop to acknowledge the help.

"If you _ever_ do anything that _stupid_ again, I swear to god, Sherlock, I will bloody just—" It appeared that Greg couldn't quite progress any further verbally. His throat had constricted and he didn't know what do so he defaulted and pulled the younger man into a hug. Sherlock didn't resist, but he did seem surprised, not really responding initially. Greg was reminded that physical affection (if this counted as affection rather than desperation was entirely open to interpretation.) was not something to which Sherlock was accustomed. Greg did not particularly care. The DI didn't have a specific fate that he could ensure in the eventuality of Sherlock pulling something like this again and empty threats were easily deducible, so Greg didn't name one, instead he held tightly to Sherlock, and felt the younger man relax slightly against him, one hand coming to rest on his back. "Do you want me to have a heart attack?" He pulled back to better examine his boy, who used the opportunity to step outside of Greg's grasp, "You can't keep doing this disappearing act."

"What Gregory is trying to imply is that he is happy you managed to reappear," Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, "I am not _blind_."

"_Really_?" Mycroft's eyes flashed lethally, "Because all evidence points to the contrary."

"If you are referring to the post-card, it is not my fault that you have no taste—"

"Oh, god," Greg groaned, placing his face in his hands.

"Ah, _yes_.The post-card, which you sent by way of Baker Street; I am so happy that you brought that up," Mycroft snarled, "do you have _any_ conception how dangerous that little gesture was? Do you have any sense of self-preservation at all?"

"For god's sake, Mycroft," Sherlock returned, with a levity that did not suit the situation in the slightest. Greg was certain it was being used to rile Mycroft still further towards a stroke, "no harm was done. I would have thought that you would be pleased."

"Pleased? _Pleased_?" Mycroft was apoplectic. Greg spoke from between his fingers.

"Sherlock, what _possessed_ you to send anything to John?"

Sherlock adopted a stance of feigned ennui, "It was not traceable as I'm sure my brother has tested repeatedly."

"That's hardly the point," Mycroft rejoined, and Greg could barely believe how angry he was about something that had made him so happy only a week ago. "Sherlock they are _watching_ Baker Street."

"I am well aware of that."

"Clearly you are _not_ or you wouldn't have done it." Mycroft cried ,and Greg could see all the fear and tension that he'd been holding for the past weeks bubbling to the surface and spilling over, "You are _blinded_ by your affections, which have clouded your judgment and—"

"—ah, my dear brother, the self-righteous sage—"

"—don't you _dare_ presume to take that one of voice with me—"

"—Oh? Have you passed another outlandish regulation that moderates speech patterns in my absence?"

"You ungrateful, foolish, stubborn—"

"Enough!" Greg shouted, effectively silencing the warring siblings. Mycroft looked like a teapot about to boil and Sherlock had affected the face he usually wore when provoking Anderson. Greg glared at them both, "Sit down, both of you." Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at one another and then back to Greg, "Now," the DI added firmly.

Mycroft stationed himself gracefully into an arm chair and Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa. It occurred to Greg that he looked completely knackered. The DI remained standing and took a moment to rub his temples, trying to forestall the headache and start his brain simultaneously.

"Now," he intoned, clearly, "we are going to talk like mature adults, all right?" There were thankfully no objections, just sullen silence.

"First: Sherlock," the consulting detective looked up through his lashes, "we are both glad to have you back in one piece." Sherlock scoffed slightly. Mycroft said nothing but he had not removed his gaze from his brother the entire time that the boy had been home. He continued to watch him, tracking his every motion, as if he could, by force of will, prevent him from disappearing. "Mycroft didn't mean to use you as a verbal whipping boy."

"I scarcely need you to apologize on my behalf, Gregory, I am sitting right here."

Greg rolled his eyes. "As you can see, his, ah 'emotions have been compromised' I think it's been going around a lot lately." He looked at his partner, who had set his face into a relaxed position. His eyes were a curious mixture of pain, panic, and naked hostility. "See, we've been rather worried about whether or not you had survived your suicide mission. You know the, ah, one you agreed not to go on?"

"I sent you a note." Sherlock sounded petulant.

Mycroft scoffed, "In the most dangerous way imaginable."

"A month after you'd gone," Greg added for good measure.

"My precipitous departure was necessary," Sherlock maintained.

"We had a deal," Greg retorted and he could hear the betrayal heavy in his voice, "you broke it."

"We could have _helped_ you," Mycroft added and, though his tone was largely casual, his words were tinged with desperation.

"I did not require assistance," Sherlock insisted, "I was perfectly fine on my own."

They all took a moment to appreciate the fact that Sherlock was rail thin, malnourished; sporting several injuries, and generally looking so exhausted that it was a wonder he had not succumbed to sleep.

"Yeah," Greg's voice was laced with sarcasm, "I can see that. Real fine job you did with that."

Sherlock glared, but the effect was rather lost by how pitiful he otherwise looked. He appeared remarkably young.

Mycroft nodded sharply and rose to his feet. He loomed over his brother, carefully inspecting him, then abruptly turning on his heel and stalking to his desk.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked.

"Calling the doctor, my brother requires immediate medical attention."

"That is completely unnecessary," Sherlock muttered scornfully.

Greg refused to have this argument "The hell it's not. Just look at you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I can hardly do that without the aid of a mirror, Inspector."

Greg looked at the pitiful figure that he made, lounged on the sofa and resisted the urge to yell some more. "Ha bloody ha," he said.

"I fail to see what's so amusing…other than Mycroft's attempts to impersonate a mother hen." Sherlock leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Greg sighed heavily and sat next to him.

"Sherlock, don't fall asleep," he shook him gently.

"I am not _concussed_," he assured the DI without moving.

"We won't know that until we get you checked out," Greg nudged him with his elbow prompting an annoyed huff. The irony of the situation was not lost on Greg. He was usually employed in the task of getting Sherlock to slow down, maybe rest a bit. Now the consulting detective was drifting off and Greg was forcing him awake. He peered intently into Sherlock's eyes. The pupils seemed to be responding to light.

"As I said, I am _fine_," Sherlock asserted.

"Just stay awake until we can get things settled." Greg leaned back and watched Sherlock. He was really here.

"Stop that," the consulting detective said without looking at DI, "it's annoying."

"Deal with it."

"I can't sleep if you keep gawking like a buffoon. It's distracting."

"Well no one in this house has slept in over a month, wondering if we'd ever see you again, I think it's only fair," Greg couldn't quite keep the bitter tone from his voice. And it must have resonated with the younger man because he opened his eyes and cocked his head to look at the DI.

"It's good to see you, Lestrade," he said after a moment, sincerely, before ruining the effect entirely, "You needn't have worried so much."

Greg blinked at the consulting detective. Was he so completely obtuse that he couldn't see how much they loved him? Was he actually that cavalier with his own life? Didn't he see the way that his life was so intricately connected to theirs?

"That is like asking a fish not to swim," Mycroft had reappeared silently, "Gregory has been concerned about your welfare since he first laid eyes upon you. God knows with what frivolity he used to fill his idle hours before he met you," he paused to survey his partner and his brother, "We have both worried about you. _Incessantly_." Mycroft's face was entirely earnest as he looked at Sherlock, who promptly leaned back and closed his eyes again. The elder Holmes sighed and Greg shook his head, "The doctor will arrive within the next twenty minutes," he told Greg, before turning to Sherlock, "do you think that you can manage to remain in one place for that long a period of time? I know that it will be a _particularly_ taxing endeavor for you."

Sherlock waved one of his hands in a vague dismissing motion, "I believe that I can manage it just at present."

Greg sighed. He felt so conflicted: happy that Sherlock was alive, worried after his safety, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to disappear, worried about the stricken pain that was clearly written across Mycroft's face. He felt a tight pressure in his chest and closed his eyes for a moment. Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder in support.

"Once we have been assured that you continue to possess your mental faculties and have not tried to maliciously kill yourself with a case of consumption—"

Sherlock sneered, "I have had vaccines, Mycroft."

"—We will be having a _lengthy_ discussion of your whereabouts, activities, and plans." By which, of course, Mycroft meant that there would be a serious discussion regarding damage control and the fact that Sherlock was about to be placed under the most stringent house arrest known to man. Greg was officially in support of the latter.

"Oh, joy," mocked the consulting detective flippantly from his reclined position on the sofa. He had taken on that boneless quality that he had when he was genuinely exhausted.

"We're serious, Sherlock," Greg added, glancing up at his partner, who looked strained.

"That much is perfectly obvious, now do shut up…please."

Greg rested his hand on top of Mycroft's as the two watched over the remains of Sherlock Holmes in silence.

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><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 27. What did you think? I hope that you enjoyed. Please, take the time to leave a review if you can. _


	28. Doctor's Orders

Dr. X returned. He greeted them all perfunctorily and couldn't quite contain his startled expression when he caught sight of the patient. He ushered Greg and Mycroft from the room swiftly, setting his bag down on the settee and removing a stethoscope. Mycroft was so against being told that he could not remain for the proceedings that Greg had to physically remove him, leaving Sherlock and the doctor alone. They relocated to the kitchen: Mycroft brittle and tense; Greg visibly shaken. There was nothing they could do and so there was only one thing to be done.

"Here," Greg offered Mycroft the carrots that he had dropped on the floor in his haste earlier. His partner cocked an eyebrow questioningly, as if carrots were somehow foreign and offensive to him. Greg just sighed, resisting the urge to give a lecture about the importance of proper nutrition (_They're filled with beta-carotene, come on now, don't you want to have good eyesight?_).

"We're making dinner," he declared instead. Mycroft hesitated briefly and then accepted the orange vegetables solemnly with the degree of gravity that one would associate with priceless antiques or works of art. "We can't do anything for Sherlock right now, and I'll not have you pacing outside the door like a damn caged tiger, so we're going to make dinner. All right?" Greg raised his chin and crossed his arms in challenge.

Mycroft nodded once sharply and straightened his spine, extending his spare hand for a knife, which Greg issued with only the slightest twinge of anxiety. He left his partner to begin chopping the carrots, while he began to brown the meat. The steady rhythm of the blade against the cutting board was simple and soothing and the smell that began to waft through the air was also a comfort. Greg surreptitiously glanced over at Mycroft, watching his methodical movements and his graceful poise. Greg had, by and large, taken over cooking duties in the house, mostly because he found it so relaxing and Mycroft was often working such peculiar hours. Sometimes he forgot that Mycroft was an excellent cook in his own right, that some of his favorite evenings were the ones that they spent in the kitchen together, making delicious culinary experiments, jokes, and messes. Evenings that could just as easily end with chocolate soufflé or a burnt roast because one or the other of them had ended up bent over the kitchen table covered in nutella. The ghost of a smile drifted across Greg's face. The last time they had cooked together they had made spaghetti bolognaise. Greg had made the pasta and Mycroft the sauce and he remembered clearly the way that he had come up behind his partner, hands on his waist, trailing kisses down his neck, while Mycroft had smiled and half-heartedly protested the distraction. Greg had covered the pan, lowered the heat on the range, and promised that "it would keep," into Mycroft's open mouth. It had been delicious half an hour later, eaten by candle light with rumpled clothing and contented smiles. Dessert had been even better.

Now they moved around each other in perfectly anticipated and negotiated actions, a well-oiled cooking machine, exchanging ingredients, smoothly passing one another the necessary items, and handing off tasks without verbal communication. Despite their coordination, a thread of anxiety ran through the proceedings, and they took turns glancing towards the doorway, waiting for news. When Mycroft passed Greg the tin to place in the oven, their hands met and Mycroft looked at Greg fondly, as if were also remembering happier times in this room, hoping that they would return sometime quite soon. While they waited, Greg hopped up onto the counter and Mycroft stood in the center of the kitchen, looking a bit lost and directionless. It was not an expression that often graced his face and Greg did not like it in the slightest.

"Oi, you," he called softly, throwing a crumpled dishtowel at his partner (Mycroft caught it deftly. _Without even looking, of course_), "Get over here." The elder Holmes smiled wryly and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. He tossed the cloth back at Greg, who didn't bother catching it and instead just ducked to the side, letting it sail past his head. Mycroft came to stand before Greg, in between his legs and the DI placed his hands on his shoulders and a soft kiss on his brow, before pressing their foreheads together. "Just try to relax, My," he murmured.

Mycroft glanced towards the doorway again, quick as a flash, there and back. There was concern in his eyes, tension radiating in waves from his person. It did nothing to sooth the jittery feeling in Greg's own stomach, like he might fly out of his skin from the strain and worry.

"Do you think that he is all right?" Mycroft asked. His tone was even, but his eyes were wild, "He was not himself. You don't think there has been any brain damage do you?"

God help him, Mycroft Holmes was actually wringing his hands. Greg cupped Mycroft's cheek with one hand and stopped his fingers' fretful movements with the other.

"I really don't know," he admitted truthfully. _This might have been a good moment to lie_, he thought. Mycroft leaned forward until his head was resting on Greg's chest and the DI gently ran a hand through his hair. "We won't find out until he's done getting check over, yeah? No use worrying about it now." Mycroft pulled back and looked at Greg, "We'll deal with whatever it is. He's here. He's in one piece. The rest is just, ah—"

"Semantics?"

"I was gonna say window dressing?" Greg joked and Mycroft held tight to the DI's waist. Greg placed his hands, once again, on the slope of Mycroft's shoulder, kneading at the tension that lingered there. The elder Holmes let out a sigh of relief.

Greg nodded, "Now," he began, "let's get this bloody tie off, and sit you down." He loosened Mycroft's blue satin tie, and undid his waistcoat buttons, sliding seamlessly off the counter (_well, not seamlessly, I'm not bloody twenty any more!_) and running his hands over the crisp linen of Mycroft's exposed shirt. The man let out another sigh of satisfaction. Greg rested his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck and took a deep breath. My smelled like ink and citrus, mint and tea, with a faint trace of some expensive cologne, and a musky undertone that was just him. Greg let it fill his lungs. He smelled like home. The DI placed a kiss just behind Mycroft's ear and pulled back so that he could see his partner's face. Mycroft's touched Greg's cheek gently and kissed him soft and lingeringly on the mouth.

"You're far too good to me, Gregory," he breathed.

Greg chuckled softly, "No I'm not…You're just far too hard on yourself. Now sit. I'll make us some tea."

For all Greg's assurances to Mycroft, he couldn't help but be concerned about Sherlock. _I mean really, what if there __is__ something seriously wrong? We don't even know where he's been, what he's done, what's been done to him, what he's done to himself. _Sherlock had been very quiet and subdued. He had hardly risen to Mycroft's bait and had preferred to lie back than explain in excruciating detail his whereabouts and adventures. _The kid is a show off to the core, and dramatic to boot, if he's not showing you up or trying to get the last word in, then there's something off_. Sherlock could be quiet, sure, but not when there were things to tell, ways upon ways to prove his superiority and prowess. He didn't sleep until he was far past the point of needing rest. There had been enough hospital visits to counteract exhaustion and malnutrition over the years (even and especially before Greg had known him) to prove that Sherlock did not always (or even occasionally) take the best care of himself. The few times that Greg had seen him actually collapse from dehydration and hunger and sleep deprivation had been frankly terrifying. There were also the signs of physical damage to consider: the bruises, the scrapes…Greg sighed. _They've been an awfully long time in there_.

He placed a mug in front of Mycroft and they sat at the table. The aroma of shepherd's pie lingered in the air, and the tea proved a steady anchor. On any other night, it would have been a tranquil domestic scene: a loving couple sharing time and a meal together. If it weren't for the lingering dread about what was happening down the hallway, it would have been a charming moment. Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's knee and the DI fought the urge to whack his own head against the polished wood surface of the table, repeatedly.

"_Breathe_, Gregory," Mycroft suggested plaintively. Greg did rest his forehead on the cool table surface, and Mycroft moved his hand to card it through Greg's thick silver spikes.

"God, this is karmic retribution."

"Nonsense."

"No, seriously, all those punk days, staying up late, drinking, driving my mum mental, leaving her sitting up waiting and worried…this is my punishment," Greg groaned pitifully. "Only it's worse. Karma."

"Gregory," Mycroft mollified him, "you are a lapsed Roman Catholic."

Greg looked up.

"Which may explain your present inclination towards self-flagellation and guilt," Mycroft sighed, "If any one's misspent youth is to blame for our present circumstances, it is most certainly not yours…" he paused, considering, "it is mine. Mine and my brother's both. Gregory, I—"

"My—" Greg felt a constriction in his chest and he extended his hand towards Mycroft when a third voice spoke up.

"Gentlemen," said the doctor from the doorway. Mycroft leapt to his feet and Greg almost fell out of his chair in his haste to do the same.

"Doctor," Mycroft greeted, hastily smoothing his undone tie and waistcoat buttons, "won't you please join us. Gregory has just made us some tea, and I'm quite certain that dinner shall be ready in a moment."

"Yeah, please, er, won't you sit down?" Greg added.

"Thank you," Dr. X replied, accepting Mycroft's offer of tea and a chair. Everyone sat down at the table together, jittery and tense, expect for the good doctor who was polishing his glasses on a cloth he kept in his pocket.

Greg had his hands folded as if in prayer on the table before him, and Mycroft made a strangely self-conscious head duck, steepling his fingers in front of his face and staring intensely at the doctor's head as if he would bore holes into the man's skull with his eyes and recover all necessary information through force of will. Greg was going leap out of his chair and shake the man in about a second if he didn't talk. _How long can it possible take to clean your specs?_

"_Well_," Mycroft intoned finally, "What is your diagnosis?"

The doctor finally placed his spectacles firmly back in place and cleared his throat, taking a sip of his tea. He set the cup back into its saucer slowly and precisely, and Greg fought down the strong urge scream. Mycroft's fingers twitched.

"My diagnosis of your brother's condition is complicated at best," he said, his voice deep and gravelly.

"What d'you mean?" Greg queried.

"Well in the first place, he is extremely malnourished," Dr. X responded levelly, "He is anemic, underweight, and has several vitamin deficiencies. He is also dehydrated."

Mycroft's hand lashed out lightning fast to clutch Greg's wrist in a death grip. Greg exhaled sharply.

"Sleep deprivation is another concern," the doctor continued, "Sherlock is presently sedated in the study. I have set up an IV that will hopefully give him some of the nutrients that his body needs," he took another sip of tea and cleared his throat, "I am exceedingly concerned by his resistance to treatment. That is, of course, as I am sure you are aware, typical of Sherlock, but he seemed even more disinclined towards doing anything that could lead to his recuperation"

He cleared his throat, "I am aware that Sherlock has had drug issues in the past and that this continues to be a concern for you both," Greg and Mycroft nodded, "It does not appear that he is using. However," he pursed his lips slightly, "There is evidence that Sherlock has injured himself," Greg was losing circulation in his hand from the steel clutch of Mycroft's fingers, "Sherlock has sustained several injuries in the previous month and a half, which include a sprained ankle, three cracked ribs, a ruptured meniscus and two broken finger. This is in addition to several more minor contusions and lacerations. His fractured wrist has not healed in the way that I would like, undoubtedly because he removed the casting prematurely. I will need to do some more advanced scans to determine whether or not this has resulted in any nerve damage and we can consider surgical options at a later date. I was concerned, as I am sure you were as well, in particular by the bruise on his temple which indicated the potential for a concussion or cerebral hemorrhage, you will be pleased to note that it would seem that any damage sustained from this blow was minor. He is neither concussed nor bleeding into his brain."

Greg and Mycroft sat in silent contemplation. Greg couldn't speak for his partner but he could definitely vouch for the fact that he was feeling like he might vomit. _What the fucking hell has he been doing…that fucking fool. Malnourished? Surgery? Broken bones all over the place? Surgery? How bad is the damage? What the hell? Sherlock has been running all over the world with a broken body and a broken mind, it's a miracle he's still breathing…_

Doctor X looked between the couple meaningfully, allowing them to soak in the information that he had just relayed. Mycroft's jaw was twitching, Greg's face was completely blanched, the doctor considered them a moment more and then proceeded, "In addition to the aforementioned injuries, Sherlock has what appears to be a stab wound on his left thigh. It has been cleaned and stitched and does not appear infected. I have, none-the-less, administered antibiotics as a preventative measure. His body's ability to produce antibodies on its own is extremely improbable." He paused again. Every time the man stopped in his diagnosis, Greg felt his heart stutter as he braced himself for the coming blow.

"These are all in their way treatable, provided that Sherlock receives the proper care, and especially the rest, that he requires," He glanced meaningfully at Mycroft, "I understand that this may be particularly difficult, given the patient's history, in which case I suggest that we keep Sherlock heavily sedated in the initial stages of his healing process," Greg couldn't agree more. Mycroft seemed conflicted. The longer that Sherlock was sedated the longer it would take for them to find out exactly where he had been and what he had been doing. However, the longer he was sedated, the longer they would be able to keep him here and keep him safe. Greg placed his hand atop Mycroft's, which reduced the crushing pressure on his own wrist, but also seemed to remind his partner that Sherlock's safety took precedence over their own knowledge at this point in time.

The doctor cleared his throat, "I am, however, exceedingly concerned by some of the other injuries that Sherlock has sustained during his absence."

Mycroft's eyebrows snapped together, and Greg's rose instantaneously to his hair line, "What do you mean _other _injuries?"

The doctor took another sip of tea, and Greg regretted ever having offered the man a beverage, "Sherlock has several lacerations along the insides of his forearms. They appear to be methodical and deliberate."

You could have heard a pin drop the room was so silent.

"I believe that they were self-inflicted," the doctor added as if that was not already abundantly clear.

"I see," Mycroft said; his voice strained to the breaking point.

"He's been cutting himself?" Greg was incredulous. _Although, really, should I be?_ _Sherlock has been his own worst enemy for quite some time_. _He'll do anything to keep from being bored, to escape for a bit. _Greg buried his face in his free hand. He wasn't crying. Honestly.

"It would appear so," the doctor's tone was matter-of-fact and apologetic, "it does not seem that he was attempting suicide. The wounds are shallow and avoid any major veins and arteries. However, the cuts are layered, and in various stages of healing, all are recent."

Mycroft was silent, staring straight ahead. Greg took the lead, "What should we do?"

"Under other circumstances I would suggest psychiatric care. Self-inflicted injury in conjunction with Sherlock's disregard for his own safety and basic health are indicative of a larger problem. Given what I understand of the prevailing situation, however," He glanced at Mycroft's frozen visage again, and Greg wondered how much information the doctor had been made privy to, "I recognize that this might not necessarily be possible."

Greg took Mycroft's hand in his own and contemplated his facial expression which was distant and glacial, "No, I don't reckon that it is," he affirmed. Mycroft nodded tightly.

"I expected as much," the doctor nodded, "in that case, I suggest that you keep a close watch on him as much as possible. I prescribed several medications and vitamin supplements for Sherlock, as well as sedatives, antibiotics, and a suggested dietary regimen for when he once again takes solid food. We will continue to keep Sherlock on intravenous nutrition for at least forty-eight hours. I have already attended to his more superficial injuries. His fingers, ribs, and ankle have been appropriately handled. I have bandaged his forearms with gauze. His knee has been wrapped though, again, we will have to consider surgical intervention for this as well as his wrist. I will return this evening, in approximately five hours, to deliver the medications that you will need. I shall be in contact every eight hours after that. I will expect updates and I will return tomorrow to monitor his progress. Is there anything else?"

Greg's mind whirled dizzyingly, "Could you, er, write all that down?"

The doctor proffered a piece of paper with instructions written in neat script, "Already done."

Mycroft rose to his feet and the doctor and Greg followed suit. "Thank you very much for your time," he said.

"Of course, Mycroft," Dr. X replied, taking Mycroft's hand and speaking in a slow avuncular way that made Greg wonder exactly how long they had known one another and in what capacity this man had been able to accrue such trust from a Holmes, "if you need anything at all…"

"Quite," Mycroft rejoined.

"Inspector," the doctor said with a nod, "I wish you the best of luck. Please, do not hesitate to contact me."

He took his leave them, solemnly and slowly. As soon as he was clear of the kitchen, Mycroft fairly collapsed (in a graceful, fluid motion) back into his chair where he buried his face in his hands. Greg gripped the back of his seat with ferocity.

"Well that was—"

"Informative?"

"Painful," Greg corrected, "It was bloody painful."

"I agree," Mycroft's sharp voice was muffled by his palms.

"Your brother has, ah—"

"Reached a new level of insanity and self-loathing?"

"It's gotten a bit out of hand."

"Gregory," Mycroft looked at him from between his fingers, before bringing his hands to rest on the table, "_that_ is the understatement of the decade. I confess I am torn between the desire to throttle him and not let him out of my sights."

"I know how you feel," Greg sincerely meant it. He was well beyond worried. He couldn't quite believe that Sherlock had managed to do this to them and to himself.

The timer sounded behind them and they both startled (a sure sign that Mycroft was tired). It felt like aeon ago that they had been cooking in tandem in the kitchen.

"What d'you say that we take dinner down to the study, eh?" Greg suggested tentatively, "sit with him a bit."

"I have rather lost my appetite."

"Well, so have I, but we'll be setting a good example. C'mon then. I'll fix some plates and meet you there in a tic."

Mycroft stood, placed a gentle kiss on Greg's cheek. He was shaking slightly. The barest tremor in his fingers as they brushed against the back of Greg's hand. The DI held Mycroft close for a moment. "It'll be all right, My," Greg had lost track of the number of times that he had said that in the past months, "It will."

Mycroft took a deep breath and pulled back. His sharp eyes scanned Greg's face and then he nodded. "I will see you in a few moments."

Mycroft walked out of the room, waistcoat unbuttoned, tie undone, tired looking, but he had his battle face on, ready to stand against the armada if need be. Greg smiled tiredly and focused on the small manageable task of scooping shepherd's pie onto two plates. He could do this. He wasn't so sure about caring for a broken boy and a damaged man in waiting in the study.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Sorry for the delay in posting everyone. Welcome to Chapter 28. Did you enjoy? Please, take the time to leave a review and share your thoughts if you can. Hearing from my readers invariably makes my day. On a more personal note, my semester starts this week. I'm planning to continue regularly posting at least one chapter per week, but there might be a delay this first week. Much love to all of you (and especially good luck and big hugs to any of you who are headed back to school this week)._


	29. Motives Matter

Sherlock was definitely sedated. He was pale and lifeless; his various bruises, cuts, and scrapes standing in stark contrast to his blanched skin. There were splints on his fingers and bandages wrapped around his torso, knee, and arm. He had been changed out of the clothing he had been wearing earlier in favor of what Greg recognized as some of his own sleepwear—a loose fitting t-shirt from university and cotton pajama bottoms. When Greg inquired as to the destiny of Sherlock's earlier attire, Mycroft confirmed that they would be incinerated without delay, and Greg couldn't be bothered to even feign surprise.

Sherlock was very still and his breathing was deep and even. He looked impossibly young and small, a shadow. True to his word, the doctor had set up an IV and it dripped a nutritional cocktail into Sherlock's bloodstream steadily. Greg was marginally curious how the doctor had managed to smuggle all of this medical equipment into the flat. He had only brought a small medical bag. _But_, the DI mused, _I suppose he came prepared for everything_.

Mycroft was situated very close to his brother when Greg entered the room. He had placed his hand on Sherlock's forehead and he brushed the unruly curls back with a gentle and steady motion, full of tenderness, as if too much pressure would break the younger man. The image struck Greg as particularly private. He stood on the threshold, feeling absurdly that he had intruded on something and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

Mycroft startled and withdrew his hand as if scalded, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, as if caught doing something shameful and eager to pretend that it hadn't happened.

"How's he doing?" Greg inquired softly. He wasn't sure why he whispered, Sherlock was so heavily sedated it would take a troop of stampeding elephants to rouse him.

"He is sleeping," Mycroft whispered back and unspoken "_obviously" _hung in the air, "It would seem he is the same."

"Well, that's something…I guess," Greg suggested, setting the plates on the nearest table and pulling up a chair beside Mycroft. They sat in companionable silence, knees brushing. After several moments, Mycroft leaned over and laid his head on Greg's shoulder. The DI startled for a second before slipping an arm around his partner.

"It's strange to see him like this," the elder Holmes admitted quietly. Greg looked at Sherlock, clearly injured and ill. That was most certainly not unusual. It had happened enough over the years that they both knew exactly what it looked like.

"Asleep," Mycroft amended, feeling Greg stiffen and sensing his confusion, "Peaceful."

Greg squeezed Mycroft's shoulder in reassurance, "He doesn't slow down much, that's true." _It only takes tranquilizers to make him relax a bit_, he added mentally.

"He has always been that way," Mycroft continued softly, and Greg rested his head atop his partner's. Neither of the Holmeses spoke of their shared childhood with any degree of frequency. Mycroft's mentions of it were few and far between and often came seemingly out of the blue. Sherlock only ever made oblique references that were cryptic for everyone but his brother. However, using his detective skills, Greg had managed to piece together a relatively accurate picture over the years. At the very least, he knew that when Mycroft wanted to share something of that nature, it was best to be quiet, and allow him to divulge what he would in his own time.

"Yeah?" He offered to indicate his willingness to listen. "I can believe that." Greg could easily picture a smaller, healthier, version of the consulting detective darting around the Holmes estate with maniacal energy.

"Even as a child…always running about, so curious, getting into mischief," Mycroft murmured, voice quite even, "He hated sleeping, positively abhorred naps. It was as if he were terrified that he would miss something important," he paused and they both watched Sherlock's deep breathing and listened to the steady drip of his medications.

"I would find him collapsed in the library or the garden, completely exhausted and I would put him to bed," he sighed, "of course, he would protest the entire way that he wasn't 'the slightest bit sleepy.' _Obstinate_…even then," he sighed deeply and Greg imagined a younger Mycroft, still a child himself, taking far better care of his brother than either of their parents, nannies, or tutors.

The elder Holmes continued, "I suppose some things never truly change. We came to an agreement regarding bedtime eventually. It involved lengthy negotiations," Greg smiled, "He had such political promise, but, I digress. We agreed that if he would come to me when he was tired, I would read to him until he fell asleep. Botany, history, chemistry, literature, politics, he was allowed to choose, provided he could justify his preference. He was positively enamored with Machiavelli when he was around six or so. I would read to him and he would eventually drift off. I would mark the page and continue the following evening."

Mycroft trailed off and they sat in silence for several minutes.

"You were good to him, My," Greg could somehow easily imagine a teenaged Mycroft with his small brother clinging to his side, making careful selections together in the library. The image was poignant and painful.

Mycroft sighed deeply, "It was much easier when we were children."

Greg kissed the top of his head, _I don't think you were ever really a kid, My_, he thought but did not say aloud.

"When Sherlock was a child," Mycroft amended, perhaps sensing Greg's thoughts, "It was simpler. It was easier to prevent these things."

"I know it pains you, My," Greg whispered, "but you can't hold yourself fully responsible for this…He can go out into the world and make stupid decisions all on his own. He's an adult."

"He certainly doesn't act like one," Mycrof dissented, "what do you call _this_?" He waved a hand to incorporate Sherlock's sleeping form, the wounds invisible and apparent to the casual observer, "These are not the actions of a responsible _adult_. They are the choices of an impetuous and foolhardy _boy_."

Greg gripped Mycroft's shoulder more tightly, "Or a very loyal friend and brother."

Mycroft pulled back suddenly, so that he could better observe Greg's face. The DI held up his hands in surrender. Mycroft's glare was downright vicious, "I'm not defending him," he assured his partner before he could launch into the verbal assault that was so clearly waiting in the wings.

"Are you _quite_ certain of that?"

"Yes."

"That is certainly _judicious_ of you because Sherlock's behaviors, in case it has escaped your notice, are bordering on _suicidal_, Gregory," Mycroft was seething. At least he was seething quietly. Sherlock stirred slightly, and then both turned to stare at him, before realizing that he was unlikely to wake.

"I have noticed that, thanks," Greg returned pointedly in the face of Mycroft's mounting ire and narrow-eyed hysteria. "I'm just saying that _maybe_ his heart is in the right place?" Greg's statement came out as a question, and he recognized the very tenuous thin ice on which he was treading.

Mycroft's face clearly indicated that he thought that Greg had completely lost his mind. And he said as much, "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?" he hissed, "My brother has demonstrated, quite clearly, and repeatedly, I might add, that he has little to no concern for his own _life_." Mycroft was breathing heavily and Greg felt the pressure of his gaze like a physical weight.

"And that is a fucking terrifying thing," He agreed completely, "It makes my blood run cold. My, I actually feel like I'm going to fucking be sick from it. Be he does care about you and me and John and that is the reason he's doing all this and that should count for something…right?"

Mycroft sighed heavily, "I _cannot_ believe that you are attempting to justify his atrocious behavior. Gregory, I agree that he would irreparably damage himself in a misguided attempt to protect John and yourself," Greg noted that he had not included himself on the list of people that Sherlock would die to protect, "That is true, but he continually fails to realize that his well-being is intricately tied to our own. Until he acknowledges this, I am afraid that he should not be allowed out of our sight…I just don't understand where he came up with this foolish notion. And I blame myself. Thankfully," Mycroft looked dark and determined, "thankfully, we have enough time to correct this oversight."

"My," Greg choked a little bit, "My, this is not your fault. It's _not_. You raised him and he is brilliant, but you can't blame yourself for the things he's done." He forced Mycroft to meet his gaze, "I'm serious; you just can't."

Mycroft clearly didn't believe or agree with him, and Greg did not know whether it would be worth it to force the issue.

"My," Greg reasoned, changing tactics. He was experiencing a great deal of difficulty articulating this point, "A year ago, he would have killed himself trying to prove that he was clever. He takes his life in his hands like it's a throw away piece of paper every day. And I'm not blaming you for that and I'm sure that he wouldn't either. John sure wouldn't," Greg paused, taking a moment of silence to appreciate the fact that John would be absolutely _beside _himself if he could see Sherlock right now. Greg shifted his thoughts away from that as quickly as he could. There was only so much guilt and worry that he could manage at any one moment and adding John to this mix would give him that final push over the edge and into insanity, "All I am saying, is that there's a bit more altruism in the self-destruction these days. That's got to count for something." He was grasping at straws and he knew it.

Mycroft stared, "Gregory, my dearest, most beloved Gregory," _terms of endearment_ flashed like a warning side in Greg's head as he braced himself. "You know that I typically find your particular brand of optimistic pragmatism endearing. Indeed, I believe that these qualities, in _you_, are genuinely charming and quite heartening," _Here it comes_, Greg thought, "However, at present, I must confess that I find your attitude vaguely disturbing. The motivations hardly matter if Sherlock continues to behave in such a caviler manner with regard to his own life, health, and safety." Mycroft spoke slowly, in clipped tones that emphasized his bewilderment and displeasure.

Greg was flummoxed, "Of course his motivations matter, My." _How could they not?_

"So speaks the Detective Inspector," Mycroft quipped dryly.

Greg took Mycroft's hands in his own and held fast to them. He had to get this out. It was important. It was the only thing that was keeping him from teetering over that edge. He _needed_ to believe that there were reasons that Sherlock was doing what he was doing and that there was a way that he could forgive him for treating himself in such a terrible way. "No," he spoke firmly, "so speaks your _husband_ and your _partner_" Mycroft typically responded very strongly and affectively to the "husband" card in moments of strife. It drew him back to the heart of their relationship and Greg used it sparingly and strategically, only in moments of extreme duress and strife. He clearly had Mycroft's attention and so he continued, "so speaks Sherlock's—" He trailed off. God, it would be so much easier if there were a word for this. If there were a title that he could rightfully claim.

"Parent," Mycroft suggested and Greg blinked quite frankly derailed by this response.

"What?" Greg's eyes snapped to meet Mycroft's as if magnetized. The elder Holmes smiled small, but warmly. The first such expression that Greg had seen since they had begun this discussion. _No, even earlier than that_. Since they had spoken to the doctor and heard the news regarding Sherlock's health. It had only been hours, but it certainly felt more like years. Greg was going to have to write some sort of book about the way that time could speed up and slow down in moments of crisis. _God knows I've had enough practice_.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mycroft said, "don't look so shocked. The expression is fairly adorable, but it's hardly warranted. You think of Sherlock as your own and you care for him more than our own father ever did. That is incontrovertibly clear to anyone with eyes. You are allowed to claim the distinction of parentage."

Greg wasn't sure how to respond. They had never discussed this so directly. "It isn't really my place, My."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gregory, of course, it is your place…he loves you as well. In so far as he is capable of doing so," Mycroft paused for the briefest moment, giving Greg the necessary time to absorb this information and attempt to process it. "Now, you were saying?"

"Oh, ah, right," Greg stammered, "all I mean is that, well, that he might be making poor—" Mycroft glared, impressive in his incredulity, "—all right, bloody awful life decisions," Greg corrected. He certainly thought that the revision was fair, given the things that Sherlock had done to himself in the past month alone, "but his heart is, at least, in the right place…I think…"

"Provided that he doesn't carve it out of his chest in his next attempt to articulate his self-loathing and frustration," Mycroft replied, his tone dry.

Greg groaned and placed a hand over his eyes to shield himself from that image. It wasn't working. "I was being metaphorical," he groaned.

Mycroft didn't twitch or waver, and the fact that he seemed to not even be joking was worrisome in the extreme, "Yes, I am aware of that. I elected to respond literally."

"Yeah, I got that," Greg rolled his eyes, "I don't think he's self-loathing."

Mycroft raised his brows, "No?"

Greg hesitated, "Not exactly, anyway," Sherlock did not have contempt for his own mind or intellect. _God knows he boasts about them enough_. Nor did he necessarily harbor contempt for his body exactly. It was more that he loathed his mortality, his humanity and would do whatever he could to transcend that dreaded condition. Did that count as self-loathing? Greg couldn't quite be certain, but he had a sneaky suspicion that Mycroft might be right. The things that he did to harm himself so often were methods of escape of distancing himself from his physical condition…Sherlock had many inner demons and Greg only knew that smallest fraction of them.

"Whatever his motivations may be," Mycroft seemed to realize that Greg was experiencing some sort of painful epiphany, "and however deeply seated his issues are, we will be watching him closely until and especially _after_ he recovers."

"Agreed," Greg promised.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Bless me readers for I have sinned, it has been more than two weeks since my last update…In all seriousness, hi everyone. Thanks for joining me for Chapter 29 (holy godtiss on toast! How the hell are we on Chapter 29?!). If you are still reading this tale, you deserve several gold stars and a huge hug. I do apologize for the delay in the update, the first few weeks of term have been rather busy for me. I also apologize for the level of incoherency in this chapter because it was very much written in exhausted snatches of stolen time between reading historical tomes. That being said, I am hoping to have a new chapter up (in which Sherlock shall be conscious and John will make an appearance) within the next ten days at most. Until then, my dearest readers, please, take the opportunity to leave me a review; they do so encourage me to keep writing, and I love hearing what you think. Much love. _


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